Though Heaven Bar the Way
by FlyingFish15
Summary: As Rasputin prepares to sacrifice Erica to the Ogdru Jahad for her betrayal of the Thule Occult Society sixty years prior, Kroenen and Erica are in little shape to fight him. Can their hastily concocted plot save her life? Kroenen/Erica/Abe
1. The Beginning of Trouble

**Chapter 1: The Beginning of Trouble**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Anna, David, Jake, the vampire, the undertaker, and the plot that isn't from the movie is mine.

Author's Notes: A huge thank you to all the people that reviewed the last two chapters of A Shadow to a Heart! To those of you who didn't review, at least I know you read it by the number of hits it got. Anyways, here's the long awaited first chapter of the sequel to A Shadow to a Heart. If you haven't read that story, I suggest you do so because though I will briefly explain things, this will make a whole heck of a lot more sense if you know the characters and events I'm talking about. In this chapter Erica and the BPRD team are going on a little adventure, hehe, before I jump into the movie plot. And of course I will be serving up a bit of humor in here as well! Rated PG-13 for violence, mild language, etc. As always here are the German to English translations: 'Ja' is yes, 'Nein' is no, 'Fräulein' is Miss, and 'Auf Wiedersehen' is goodbye. Enjoy the first chapter!

**Scorponis:** Or did you change it to thispennameisdead? Great to know you enjoyed the last chapter of A Shadow to a Heart and the title I chose for this story, I hope to see you reviewing this too!

**amyltrer: **Here's the sequel! Kroenen is nice when he's drunk? What do you mean by that? Hmm…perhaps there's room for him to be drunk in this story too…

**Psycho Llama: **You think A Shadow to a Heart is the _best_ Hellboy one? cries in happiness Thank you _so_ much! You're so sweet! I will definitely write to keep my story that way! And you're another person that likes it when Kroenen is drunk, perhaps I'll have to put that in this story too.

**Gestalt:** Here's part two. And of course Erica and Kroenen won't stay mad at each other forever!

**iluvrocknroll:** The long awaited sequel is finally here!

"Fear grows in darkness; if you think there's a bogeyman around, turn on the light."—Dorothy Thompson

_October, Present Day_

_A Village in Transylvania, Romania_

_Close to Midnight_

A small group of children stood on the rough dirt path that led to their village, all of them huddled together in the yellow glow of a few torches. Most of the girls were wearing dresses and the boys were in shirts and pants. Nearly all of the children were barefoot, since it was hard to sneak out of the house while wearing shoes. However, a lot of them were beginning to wish they had thought to bring their shoes with them, the Transylvanian autumn nights were very chilly.

The two oldest among the group were a thirteen year old boy and girl, the youngest was a seven year old girl.

"Everybody here?" asked the oldest boy, squinting at the excited faces around him. His name was Jake

"Yeah." came the general response. The littlest girl yawned and sleepily clutched her favorite stuffed bear to her chest.

"I just hope we don't get caught," said the oldest girl, Anna, "My mother would kill me! You know how all the adults are: 'don't go out after night fall'." She put her hands on her hips, imitating her mother. The children giggled, though a lot of them looked a little worried about how much trouble they would be in if they got caught.

"Well come on, let's go see if all those rumors about monsters are true," said Jake, "That's if you all aren't scaredy cats!"

Instantly the children's faces became bold and they stood up straighter, none of them wanted to be seen as cowards. Even the littlest girl's eyes glittered with bravery and the thrill of deliberately disobeying her parent's rules.

"Then on to the castle!" one of the boys, named David, announced loudly. He struck a noble pose.

The children laughed and shushed him at the same time and then started down the path, their bare feet making a soft pitter-patter sound as they walked down the cold dirt road.

It was a pitch black night, there was no light from the moon or stars to guide the children, and they could just barely make out the silhouettes of trees and the edges of the fields that surrounded their rural village for as far as the eye could see. As soon as the village had disappeared in the darkness behind them everyone made sure to stay in the small circle of light cast by the torches, even the smaller children ran to catch up when they began to fall behind the rest of the group. The circle of torchlight was like a little haven or oasis, everything outside of it looked strange and frightening in the dark. The wind blew through the gnarled branches of the trees and rustled eerily through the dry leaves and the crops in the fields on either side of the narrow path. The children huddled closer together but continued to press forward, laughing and chatting, none of them wanted to look like a coward.

The longer they walked the more unpleasant the journey became: children tripped and scraped their bare feet on the rocks of the dirt road. Freak gusts of wind caused the torches to gutter and sometimes almost blew them out. When that happened the smaller children squealed, enjoying their fear. And on top of everything else it was _cold_. The children hugged their arms around themselves or rubbed their hands together and blew on them in an effort to keep warm. Some of them complained at intervals that their bare feet felt numb.

The children passed the end of their village's fields. Now, instead of there being fields on either side of the path, there was a desolate expanse of grass that stretched off into the distance, occasionally interrupted by a few leafless and twisted trees or clumps long brown grass.

Just when the novelty of the situation was beginning to wear off and children were starting to slow down and beginning to think their adventure wasn't such a great idea, they were there. From where they stood on the road they suddenly spotted the dark outline of the old castle and the hill it sat on standing a darker ebony against the black night sky and the mountains behind it. The castle was less than a quarter of a mile from where they stood. As if a spell had been cast on them, all of the children fell silent and stood staring at the empty windows and ruined battlements. The castle had a frightening and foreboding air about it, made all the more menacing by the ghost stories and rumors of vampires and monsters that were said to live there.

The cold, biting wind howled through the branches of a twisted tree and the flames of the torches crackled as they guttered and flared. The children unconsciously huddled closer together and stared wide eyed at the castle, suddenly very sure that they shouldn't have come. Secretly each of them longed to be back in his or her warm bed instead of standing barefoot in the cold near a haunted castle. The children's eyes were bright with unspoken fear. All of them were afraid of the castle but they were also afraid of the social humiliation they would have to face if they were the first to admit they were scared and wanted to go home. The children murmured uneasily to each other, and then suddenly, one of the boys realized that someone was missing.

"Where's Jake?" asked David.

Everyone looked around, but Jake was nowhere in sight. Nervous murmurs drifted through the group.

"BOO!"

The children screamed shrilly, screaming all the louder because everyone else was. Anna whirled around towards the sound and saw Jake, laughing hysterically beside the tree he had been hiding behind.

"Calm down!" Anna ordered the other children. She turned on Jake angrily, "Jake, that wasn't funny, you scared us half to death!"

"I know! And you should have seen the look on you face!"

Anna was just about to yell at him, when a strong gust wind blew out one of their torches. Immediately the children's shrieking and squealing started up again.

"Shut up," said David, "If there are any monsters out here, then they'll know exactly where we are!"

"Speaking of monsters," said Jake, grinning, "Why don't we go up to the castle and look in the windows? Or maybe even go _inside_?" He raised his arms over his head, curled his fingers into claw-like shapes, rolled his eyes back in his head, and stuck out his tongue, pretending to be a monster. There were a few half-hearted chuckles at his antics.

"Jake, I don't want to go to the castle," David said, visibly shivering as he hugged himself, "It's cold, and anyway, we should be careful. All those rumors about vampires haunting this place have to be based on something. And I don't want to get killed."

"Oh, are you a scaredy cat?" asked Jake mockingly, "I _dare_ you to go up to the castle and knock on the door!"

"Aaaaaarrrooooooooooooooo!" A wolf howled in the distance, startling the children. As if the howl had been some sort of signal, the castle and gnarled trees suddenly seemed more menacing to the girls and boys.

"We should go home before the other torches go out. It would be a long walk back in the dark without them." said Anna, coming to David's rescue. The other children nodded their consent, and the littlest girl clutched her teddy bear harder, her eyes bright with unshed and frightened tears. Even Jake looked shaken.

"All right, let's go back." Jake agreed.

They turned their backs on the crumbling castle and silently started back down the dirt path that led to the village. They walked much faster then they had on the way there, some of the children almost running. They had only been walking for a few moments when they heard another wolf howl. The children stopped walking and gazed nervously out over the fields that were on either side of the path. That howl had been much closer to them then the last one. But they didn't see anything except wheat and other crops, though the wind blowing through the ranks of wheat whipped them around in a way that made it seem like some beast was running through the fields towards them. Some of the children laughed nervously, but most were silent. The little girl with the teddy bear grabbed the edge of Anna's skirt with a grubby hand and held on tightly.

"Well, nothing there," David said, forcing a smile onto his face. Despite the confidence in his voice his eyes darted back to anxiously survey the landscape around them.

Another wolf howled and the children jumped a little, drawing closer together for protection. David and Jake instinctively picked up branches lying on the dirt road and held them like weapons. The other children took the cue and did the same, picking up sticks and rocks, all of them staying inside the yellow glow of the flickering torchlight. The fire gave them a sense of safety. But if that light went out…!

As if some evil spirit had sensed their plight and delighted in making them even more miserable and afraid, the wind sprang up again. It whipped the tops of the nearly leafless trees and blew the girls' skirts and long hair around. The torches guttered fitfully, seeming determined not to leave the children in darkness. The children's bright eyes stared silently at the torches, willing them not to go out, praying they wouldn't go out. The torches started to burn more clearly, but then the angel watching over the children seemed to lose the battle against the evil will and malice surrounding the children in the night. The torches sputtered, flickered—and went out, plunging them into darkness.

This time there was no screaming, only a dead silence that was somehow even more terrible, like the silence surrounding a condemned man or the dead quiet of a tomb. Anna sensed the other children's panic beneath the silence and eerie sound of the wind.

"As long as we stay together and stay calm, we'll be fine." she said, breaking the silence, "We all know the way back—just follow the road, there's no turns or anything. If it gets too dark we can feel the path with our bare feet."

The children started forward uncertainly, all of them on the alert and as solemn and serious as if they were more than twice their ages. They held each other's hands, arms, and shoulders in the darkness so they wouldn't lose each other. Each child left one of their hands free to hold onto their primitive stick or stone weapons.

The children passed field after field, feeling their way in the dark. Each field and tree they passed gave them a strand of hope that they all clung to desperately. The smothering darkness pressed in from all sides. The children's hearts pounded with fear as their imaginations ran wild with images of monsters and demons waiting in the dark and reaching out with clawed hands to grab them. The wolves howled in the distance, the howls growing closer and closer, spurring the children to walk faster and faster until they were nearly sprinting. They had been traveling in this fashion for what felt like an eternity when a sharp sound stopped them all in their tracks.

SNAP!

A dry twig broke somewhere in the darkness around them—something had stepped on it. And it was very, _very_ close to them. The children shot fearful looks at each other, their thoughts written clearly on their faces. Was it the wolves?

The girl with the teddy bear whimpered, on the verge of tears. Anna was in the act of bending down to pick her up, when it happened: something as large and as heavy as a man launched into their midst, bowling the children in all directions—

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!" A child's panicked scream rang through the night—

—something ran into Anna, knocking her to the ground beside the littlest girl—there was the sound of tearing cloth as the edge of Anna's dress ripped—people stepped on her—more screams—everything was utter chaos in the darkness— Anna scrambled to her feet—

"Oh my _God_!" shrieked Jake from somewhere in the dark, "It's a vampire! _Run!_ Run back to the village—the church—!"

His voice was cut off abruptly and there was the horrible, stomach turning crunch of bones being broken. Anna instinctively knew Jake wasn't joking this time. Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest that it nearly drowned out the screams around her. Barely thinking, she reached down and grabbed the little girl clutching her teddy bear. The girl screamed in terror, thinking the vampire had her. Anna hushed her and put the girl on her back piggyback style, but she only held onto the girl with her left arm. With her right Anna felt through the darkness and grabbed the arm of the next child that ran into her. The boy clutched her hand in a grip that was so tight it was painful. Anna immediately took off running toward the village, her bare feet pounding loudly against the dirt road as she ran. She heard the sound of other feet running after her and could only pray they belonged to the other children. She dashed headlong through the darkness, braches scraping her face, rocks tripping her as she ran, the pebbles on the road lacerating her feet. But she would not stop. To stop would mean death.

Screams echoed through the darkness behind her, but she didn't stop. The number of running footsteps behind her grew less and less, terrifying her even more. She knew that the vampire was pursuing them—she spotted the dim lights of the village ahead of her and ran faster, faster toward safety, almost dragging the little boy as she ran—she was almost to the village when the boy's hand was ripped violently from her grasp. Anna gasped in shock and almost stopped, her pounding heart abruptly frozen with fear. Had the boy tripped or had the vampire grabbed him? She didn't know the answer but her stomach clenched so hard in fear that she thought she was going to throw up—she didn't dare to turn and look behind her—panic drove her to sprint recklessly down the road, leaping over branches and rocks—she kept running, trying to block out the screams behind her—were they real or in her head?—_Please let this be a nightmare,_ she prayed—she was in the village, she ran straight for the church steps, holding tightly to the little girl on her back. The church would be safe, a vampire couldn't go in there—she reached the steps and started up them—she tripped on the hem of her dress, which had been torn to the point that it dragged the ground—the little girl screamed piercingly, warning Anna that the vampire was right behind them—driven by panic Anna scrambled to her feet and climbed the last steps. Inches away from safety she reached for the door handle—her sweaty hands slipped on the metal, but she got the latch open—the door opened a few inches, the old hinges reluctant to open—the little girl on Anna's back screamed harshly in absolute terror—the church door wouldn't open enough for them to get through—!

_No,_ Anna thought, _not enough for _ME_ to get through!_

Anna didn't think, she simply acted. She swung the little girl off her back and shoved her through the small opening and into the safety of the church. Anna grasped the door handle and desperately tried to yank the door open further—she paused as she glimpsed the little girl though the cracked open door. The little girl was sitting on the floor, her eyes as big as saucers and her tiny mouth hanging open in a silent scream. The girl was staring in terror at something that was behind Anna—a pair of ice cold hands seized Anna's shoulders—she kicked the church door shut to keep the little girl safe—the hands on her shoulders spun her around roughly—

Anna froze in fear as she stared into a pale face framed with long, though neat, black hair. A pair of startling, electric blue eyes looked back at her. The vampire grinned at her, revealing his two long fangs. Anna tried desperately to scream but only a small croaking sound escaped from her lips.

"One shouldn't wander after nightfall," the vampire said admonishingly, "One might find that their curiosity will prove fatal. As it will in your case. So sorry, Fräulein. Pleasant nightmares!"

The last thing Anna felt was the two fangs sinking into her neck—and then oblivion.

XXXXX

Inside the church the little girl sat on the floor, staring at the closed doors. Tears trickled down her cheeks. "Anna?" she whimpered softly. There was no answer. "Anna?" she asked anxiously, her voice louder.

Silence.

The little girl clutched her teddy bear and buried her face in his fur as she sobbed hysterically. She heard a soft 'thump' from outside the doors and her head jerked up sharply at the sound. She stared at the doors, her little heart hammering in her chest, but no sounds followed the first. The girl looked around eyeing the shadowed church with fear. The ancient pipe organ towered above her and the wooden church pews were cloaked in deep darkness. Even the saints on the stained glass windows had a menacing look.

"Anna." She whispered. The girl could hear herself gasping for breath in the silence.

On a sudden impulse the little girl scrambled to her feet, and shooting nervous looks at the shadowed pews, ran down the aisle, her bare feet making a soft pitter patter sound against the wooden floorboards. She awkwardly stumbled up the steps that were too high for her short legs and then ran up to the altar. She sat down with her back against it and curled up in a ball, hugging her teddy bear and leaning her tearstained face on her knees.

"Anna." She whimpered.

But Anna wasn't coming back.

XXXXX

_October, Present Day_

_A Private Airplane Belonging to the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense_

_Dawn_

It was dark. She lay in the mud, the cold rain falling on her upturned face as she gasped shallowly for breath. The wound in her left shoulder felt like a red hot poker had been shoved through it instead of the cold blade that had created the wound. Her blood was all over her SS uniform and was steadily dripping down and creating a red puddle around her.

A soft ticking sound reached her ears. It sounded like a clock that was broken, like the gears were grinding together. _Oh no, _Kroenen _is here, _she thought,_ He's alive, he's going to kill me for what I've done—_ The spindly, ragged figure crawled over to her and knelt beside her, his metal mask glinting as lighting flashed overhead. His torso was covered in wounds and white dust was pouring out of them as well as from the ruin that had been his left hand.

"I won't kill you," he whispered, "Not now. But I won't save you either. I can't take you back with us. Ilsa would kill you for what you've done." He thought for a moment. "In fact, I might kill you if I took you with me—but I might not. It's better for you to stay here. You have a better chance of surviving with your new _friends_."

His voice was bitter as he finished his sentence.

"Kroenen—" Erica choked out, her voice barely above a whisper, "Forgive me. I didn't—I couldn't—"

An expression of frustration crossed her face as she struggled to make her tongue and mouth obey her. But it was as if they belonged to another person—so she gave up and fell silent.

Kroenen reached into one of his pockets and pulled out something that sparkled in the dim light. "Here," he said contemptuously, pressing her silver crucifix into her hand, "You'll need this. God can't save you, Erica. He can't save you—not from me."

Her fingers curled around the broken chain of her necklace.

"No one and nothing can save you from me." Kroenen said.

"I know." Erica answered, forcing the words out. Her voice was barely audible. A tear ran down her cheek.

"I _will_ find you. I'll find you no matter where you go." Kroenen whispered softly. "I'll find you, my Angel of Death."

Erica couldn't tell from the tone in his voice whether he was trying to threaten her or comfort her. She wasn't even sure if _he_ knew.

Kroenen gently brushed the long, wet strands of hair away from her pale face and then wiped away the tears and raindrops that dotted her cheeks. The gesture was both comforting and somehow harsh. It was very strange, considering that a few minutes ago he had been trying to kill her. Erica had no energy to try to resist, so she let him do it, absently wondering if the gesture was his way of silently saying 'I'm sorry'. She felt his fingers trail over the 'T' shaped bloody gash he had cut into her left cheek and she flinched in pain. She felt his fingers stiffen as if anger was welling up in him again.

"The deepest pit of Hell is reserved for betrayers, Erica," Kroenen murmured, gently tracing around the 'T' with his fingers, "You may have tried to escape us, you may have tried to escape Hell, but your actions have condemned you to the fiery pit. But don't worry, at least you'll have us there for company. Heaven would be so lonely for you, would it not?"

He gazed down at her as he heard the Allied soldiers beginning to move again.

"Auf Wiedersehen," he whispered to her as he stood up, "And remember, I'll find you, though Heaven bar the way!"

He melted into the shadows, disappearing into the rain and darkness, leaving her to her fate at the hands of the Allied soldiers—

Everything went black and suddenly Grigory was staring at her with his empty eye sockets. He was yelling at her, his face flushed with his fury.

"Did you think I would let you go so easily? Traitor! You can never escape! You broke a pact sealed in blood! You belong to us! Our blood is in your veins, just as yours is in ours! You can _never _escape us! Your oath was made in _blood_, and you know that breaking it can only be paid by spilling all of your _life's blood_! The Ogdru Jahad will never rest until you are _dead_!" he yelled. His voice echoed horribly in the blackness around them and she cowered in fear—

She was in the dining hall of a mansion, standing on the stairs that led up to the foyer. Twenty or more elegantly dressed guests were seated at the table below her. A dead man lay on the floor near a row of windows.

"Murderer!" yelled a man she recognized as Hayner. He jumped to his feet.

_Hayner? No,_ she thought, he's dead, _I killed him myself._

"Guilty as charged," Erica heard herself say. She made a sweeping bow, "But that should hardly come as a surprise to you fine ladies and gentlemen. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be leaving, Kroenen requested that I return before midnight—"

A dark cold night. A battle was raging around her. She was soaking wet, and she was fighting for her life. She backed away from Kroenen but he kept on coming, his blades slicing towards her stomach and neck.

"TRAITOR!" he yelled, "DAMN YOU! NOW YOU WILL PAY FOR YOU TREACHERY!"

He pinned her against a stone wall and she watched frozen with horror as one of his blades rushed at her in a blur of silver that was aimed straight at her heart—

Erica woke up, her head still ringing with the clash of the battle in her dreams. Her heart was pounding in her chest and one of her hands was griping the silver cross on her necklace so hard that the metal was biting into her palm. Without opening her eyes she forced herself to calm down. _It was only a dream,_ she thought, _All of that happened in the past. It was only a dream._ Erica was used to having nightmares about her past—at least, she was used to the _thought_ that she would have them, no matter how long she had them the dreams about her past still scared her.

She slowly opened her grey eyes and discovered that she had slumped sideways in her airline seat and she was leaning against the wall. The small airplane window was a few inches from her face, offering a beautiful view of the sky outside. She gazed out the window, aware of the pleasant chatter of her friends in the background. Slowly, she released her death grip on her necklace, which just happened to have been the same silver crucifix necklace that had been in her nightmare. She turned slightly in her seat and saw Abe, Hellboy, and Agent Clay sitting around a crate and talking. Liz wasn't there because she had quit _again_ a few weeks ago. Without Liz there was more work for everyone else, but obviously the others weren't as tired as Erica since they hadn't fallen asleep. _I can't believe they didn't,_ she thought, _the BPRD has been so busy this month. But that's typical of October because of Halloween. At least I don't have to worry about getting bored._ Erica smiled and went back to looking out the window of the plane.

The plane was surrounded by huge mountains of towering white clouds. The rising sun was just peeking over the edge of the layer of clouds and it was casting breathtaking stains of orange, yellow, and hot pink over the white fluffy clouds. It was sort of like being in a water color painting of Heaven. Erica smiled wryly at the thought, _We're not exactly the sort of people you would expect to meet in Heaven: a demon, a fish-man, and me, the ex-Nazi._

"Erica, since you're awake, would you care to join us?" Abe asked, his voice drifting over to her.

"The psychic strikes again," she muttered. Her voice had a slight German accent. She smiled cheerfully as she stood up and walked over to them, taking a seat in an empty folding chair next to Hellboy.

"Hello sleepyhead." Hellboy grinned. He lifted a massive coffee cup and drained most of the contents of the mug. "Want some?" he asked, offering her the enormous coffee mug while wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his trench coat.

"Nein." she replied.

The red demon laughed. "Who would think that after all these years you'd still be speakin' German?"

She shrugged. "It just happens. Especially if something reminds me of—well, then."

"WWII you mean." Agent Clay said.

She nodded slowly.

Abe quietly watched her, picking up on her thoughts and movements. Erica appeared to be a fairly pretty twenty two year old, however, she was actually far older. She was really eighty two thanks to the gift of immortality and youth that Grigory Rasputin had given to her before she had betrayed him. The gift made her invulnerable to everything except a violent death. Erica was tall for a woman and she had brown hair a few inches longer than shoulder length. She was dressed head to toe in black: black knee-high boots, black pants, a black v-necked T-shirt, and a black trench coat with the BPRD's symbol on the shoulder of the left sleeve. Various pieces of equipment were clipped to her belt, including daggers, bullets, and a small handgun. A pair of long blades called baton swords were strapped to her upper legs. Erica liked blades, and her baton swords were by far her favorite weapons. A silver cross hung on a chain around her neck, she had worn it since WWII. Her grey eyes flicked around rapidly, just above the crooked, slash like 'T' shaped scar on her left cheek. It was the story behind how she got that scar that was bothering her right now, Abe could tell she was vaguely agitated by her nightmare.

"You had that dream again," Abe observed, his respirator bubbling faintly as he breathed, "About your past."

"Ja. It's nothing," she lied, trying to cover up her uneasiness, "It was just a dream. Not a vision. Nothing new."

Erica had the ability to see the future, and had since she was about sixteen. Her abilities had scared her at first, and that had made her a vulnerable target for the Thule Occult Society. Karl Kroenen and Ilsa Haupstien had quickly convinced her to join the Nazis and Thule Society in return for teaching her how to control her visions. Everything had gone as planned for six years: as they had promised, Ilsa and Kroenen had taught her to see into the future, the present, and sometimes the past. In return she had told them how to win future battles against the Allied Forces and had assisted Kroenen in murdering anyone who got in the way of the Nazis or the Thule Society. She had also willingly worked on Rasputin's Project Ragnarok—willingly, that is, until October 1944, when she had another vision that changed her perspective of Project Ragnarok and the Thule Society. Ultimately she had betrayed them—she had secretly sent an anonymous letter to the Allied Forces informing them of the Nazi's plans. On October 9, 1944, when the Allied Forces and the Nazis had clashed in the ruins of Trondham Abbey, she had turned on her teacher and friend, Karl Kroenen, and shot him in the back. That one shot had revealed her for what she was: a traitor. She and Kroenen had fought and he had stabbed her in the left shoulder, nearly killing her. In the end Kroenen, for reasons known only to himself, had disobeyed the laws of the Thule Society and spared her life. He had cut a 'T' into her left cheek shortly before he and Ilsa escaped from the Allied soldiers. The 'T' stood for traitor and meant that he intended to find her again—and sacrifice her to the Ogdru Jahad, destroying her soul in the process.

It was these events that she had been dreaming about.

Erica forced her nightmare to the back of her head. There were more important and pressing things to deal with, like where they were going right now.

"So, since you all have had so much time to talk, why don't one of you explain _in detail_ exactly where we're going and what monster we're after this time." Erica suggested.

"Transylvania. A vampire." Agent Clay said, sliding a folder across the crate to her.

"A vampire in Transylvania. How unoriginal," she said as she opened the folder and leafed through the contents while Clay rambled on in the background.

"A group of children were out at night wandering around and were attacked by a vampire. Most of them got away, but three of them didn't. You can see the puncture marks on their necks in the photos. Oh, and something interesting. All three of the victim's necks were broken."

Erica grimaced at little when she found the pictures. The first was of a thirteen year old boy and was labeled with the name Jake. His head was lying at an odd angle. Erica could tell his neck had been broken. There was a photo of another young boy whose skin was freakishly pale due to blood loss. The other photo was of a thirteen year old girl name Anna.

"That girl, Anna, she was on the steps of a church when the vampire got her. She saved the life of one of the other girls, though." said Clay.

"Are you sure this was a vampire and not something trying to make it look like it was?" Erica asked, holding up the pictures, "It's not typical for vampires to abuse the bodies of their victims."

"The puncture marks on the children's necks match those of other vampire victims. However, the bodies were only drained of some blood, not all of it," said Abe, "That in itself is unusual. If it was a vampire, it didn't attack them for food."

"Probably revenge or somethin'," Hellboy said, as he lit one of his cigars, "Or maybe vampy just went crazy one night."

"Vampy?" Erica asked, raising an eyebrow, "You've nicknamed that thing already?"

Clay interrupted to get them back on track. "The children weren't the only victims. Recently the vampire has attacked two adults. One woman was bitten and her neck was broken. Another man sustained severe wounds. He died a few hours after he was found."

"What's the plan?" asked Erica.

"Go by truck to an area outside the village, send some Agents to talk to the villagers, and then search the area. There's a report of an abandoned castle about a mile or so from the village. The children were attacked near there. It's a likely place to start searching."

"Is it possible the vampire was one of the villagers?" Erica asked.

"No," Abe said, "The report we received mentioned that the children who survived the attack didn't recognize the vampire as anyone they had seen before."

"What's the area like?"

"Rural. Fields. The village is very isolated, the nearest village to it is a good thirty miles away. And getting to the village won't be pleasant. The only road there is nothing but dirt and rocks." Clay informed her.

"Sounds like fun." Erica said.

"Yes, to those of us who don't have to ride in crates in the back of trucks." muttered Abe.

"Yeah, better dress warm Blue," Hellboy said, "Its chilly there. We wouldn't want you turning any bluer with frostbite."

"Very funny." Abe said, though he smiled a little.

XXXXX

_October, Present Day_

_Transylvania_

_Noon_

"Ow! _Damn_ it! Are we there yet?" Hellboy demanded into his headset as he hit his head on the top of the crate for the umpteenth time. Hellboy hated being shut up in crates for long drives, especially when he was being bounced around like a cart full of potatoes. _Mmm potatoes, _he thought, _I could go for some potatoes. Or potato chips. I'm hungry._

Erica was in the passenger's seat of the truck Hellboy's crate was on. She smiled as the irate demon's voice filled the space. "Almost," she assured him.

"Yeah, well almost isn't comin' soon enough. Are we there yet?"

Erica didn't answer him. She grinned, thinking he sounded for all the world like a little kid whose family was driving to their vacation spot.

A few minutes passed, made even longer by the bouncing and jostling as the truck bumped along the narrow dirt road. There was another truck in front and behind the one Erica was in, and those trucks were carrying equipment and the other agents assigned to this mission. The scenery rolled by, mile after mile of rolling hills and fields dotted by trees dressed in their autumn colors. The background was taken up by a chain of blue mountains that continued into the distance as far as the eye could see. By the light of day it didn't look so bad, but Erica knew from experience how quickly things could become frightening once the sun went down.

Erica hadn't heard anything from Abe from a while, so she radioed him.

"How are you, Blue?" she asked.

"Cold." said Abe's voice on the transmitter.

Erica grinned, remembering the boots, gloves, thick coat, scarf, and hat Abe had put on in addition to his wet suit and collar. If she had put all that on she would have been roasting. As it was, she was very comfortable in the autumn weather in her trench coat and black T-shirt.

Abe's voice interrupted. "You may be comfortable, but remembered which of us is in a crate and which of us is in a nice toasty truck cabin. I propose we switch places on the way back."

"Abe, you know you can't ride in here because people will see you," Erica said, "And I wouldn't like traveling in a crate."

"Do you think _I_ do?"

Just then the truck in front of them slammed on the breaks, meaning that the agent driving their truck also slammed on the breaks so fast that Erica gasped.

"Ow!" Hellboy howled over the transmitter. This was followed by a long string of profanity.

Abe was more subdued. "Next time, _I'm_ driving, I don't care what they say." he muttered over the radio.

The trucks turned off the road into a field of nothing but grass and a few trees. They came to a halt and everyone quickly piled out of the vehicles. Erica got out and stretched as two agents hurried around to the back of the trucks to let Abe and Hellboy out of their crates.

"This looks like a good spot," Agent Clay observed, scanning the landscape, "Far enough away from the village to prevent people getting curious about us, but near enough for getting back and forth from the village quickly."

"What about lunch?" asked Hellboy, walking over to them, his stomach grumbling, "I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry." Erica replied.

Agent Clay continued, gesturing around at different parts of the landscape. "We'll split up into three groups. Two large and one small. One large group will go to the village to gather information, the other large one will scout out the countryside for other sites of interest, including the castle. The small group will stay behind to make lunch, and we can all eat when we get back."

Hellboy nodded. "Abe, you go with some agents to the village. Clay, you and I'll go 'scouting' with some other agents, I don't think the villagers could handle me right now. At least Abe can manage to pass for human if he wears a lot of clothes."

"And me?" asked Erica.

"Uh, I guess you get stuck cookin'." said Hellboy with a grin on his face.

"Not if you want anything edible I'm not!" she threatened.

An expression of mock terror crossed Hellboy's face. "In that case we'll leave Agent Moss with you, he can cook. God only knows what burned stuff we'd be eatin' if we left it up to you, Erica."

"Yes, I find it quite interesting that in the past sixty years at the BPRD you haven't learned to cook anything but rotten eggs, which I'll admit are delicious." said Abe. He was standing over by the back of one of the trucks and adjusting his clothes to hide as much of his blue skin and face as possible.

"Cook? All she does is leave them in the back of the fridge and forget about them!" Hellboy said, "How can you screw that up?"

Erica pretended to be offended and shoved Hellboy in retaliation. Of course she got nowhere, Hellboy didn't even move.

"Fine, I'll stay here and watch the trucks and get out everything we have on vampires," she said.

"Whatever you do don't touch any of the food—wait, with your track record, don't even go _near_ it!" Hellboy said jokingly.

Erica rolled her eyes. Hellboy, Abe, and the agents started down the dirt road, leaving her behind with Agent Moss.

"Bye! Have fun!" she called after them, "And leave some monsters for me, okay?"

XXXXX

Abe and the group of agents walked into the small village. The village looked ageless, like it had been there forever as part of the landscape. The slightly ramshackle houses had been added onto over the years, giving them a wandering appearance. From where Abe stood in the village square he could see crosses and strings of garlic hung in every window and doorway in an effort to keep out any vampires.

The weather-beaten villagers stared at their visitors a bit mistrustfully, but they slowly trickled over until a large group of all ages surrounded Abe and the agents. The agents started talking to the villagers as Abe eyed a few small children who were openly gawking at him, their mouths open so far that you could see a few were missing one or two baby teeth. _Just imagine how much they would stare if I wasn't wearing all these clothes, _Abe thought as he discreetly scanned the area.

And got his pockets picked every two seconds by curious children.

_Thank god I can tell they're doing it, _Abe thought as he relieved a small girl of an amulet she had sneakily pulled out of his pocket. Of course, no one was sneaky enough for the psychic fish-man not to notice them.

Abe walked by another group of children who were fiddling with a book on vampires he instantly recognized as belonging to the BPRD. Without bothering to wonder how they had gotten a hold of it, he reached into their midst and plucked the book from their grubby hands.

"Thank you." Abe said to them as he gave the book to a nearby Agent.

A skeletal man stepped into Abe's path. The man was wearing a very beat up top hat and dusty formal clothes that were over a hundred years out of date. He also had long stringy hair and a wilted rose in one of his button holes. _The village undertaker, _Abe thought as the man smiled crookedly at him.

"Hello sir, you look like an intelligent man." the undertaker said, sweeping off his hat.

_Though how you can tell that is a mystery, considering the sunglasses, scarf, and hat I'm wearing, _Abe thought.

"I bet you know a good deal when you see one! And I've certainly got a good deal for you! You can buy these two bottles of vampire and werewolf repellent at a low price of thirty dollars." The undertaker shoved what looked like two glass whiskey bottles full of muddy water much closer to Abe then the fish-man liked. In fact, as Abe knew very well, they _were_ whiskey bottles full of muddy water.

"No, thank you." Abe said, polite as ever. He started to turn away, but the undertaker wouldn't have any of that.

"Perhaps I can interest you in several cloves of—"

"No. Thank you." Abe replied firmly.

"What about—"

"No." said Abe distractedly as he retrieved a pen a child had taken from his pocket.

"Perhaps some amulets to protect you from the vampires you're hunting?" the undertaker asked, offering a mess of tangled necklaces with odds and ends hanging off of them. Abe wrinkled what little nose he had in disgust as he realized that the things on the cords were human bones, pieces of god-only-knew-what, dried plants, and things stolen from coffins.

"No. Thank. You." Abe said, his irritation seeping into his voice. "And I would sleep better at night if you would return those things to their coffins."

The undertaker looked shocked for a moment. "How—?" he started to ask, but he quickly recovered and went on, "What about these…?"

But Abe wasn't paying attention, he was trying to discourage another child from picking his pockets. He desperately wanted to scream. He desperately wished Erica had come with him, or that he had been left back at camp with her. With a despondent sigh and a hopeful wish that Erica had brought rotten eggs on the trip, Abe turned to one of the agents.

"Please tell me you got everything you need by talking to these people." Abe said.

The agent looked taken aback for a moment but then shook his head. "No, they all tried to sell me stuff like that nutter you were talking to."

"Did you find out if they buried the people that were killed?"

"No. You should talk to the undertaker about that."

Abe stared at the agent for a moment and then turned to look at the undertaker, who was hocking his wares to several irritated looking agents. Abe sighed and decided to persevere for the sake of rotten eggs and the safety of mankind. Abe repeated this phrase over and over in his head as he walked over to the undertaker. _Rotten eggs and the safety of mankind, rotten eggs and the—_

"Oh you're back! Did you change your mind?" the undertaker asked, practically jumping on Abe.

Abe eyed the man distastefully. "No. We need to ask you and the villagers some questions about the vampire attacks." _Providing they'll all shut up, _thought Abe.

"Well I don't know much about it, just what everyone's been gossiping about. I only bury the bodies—_clean up_ after the attacks, if you know what I mean. Speaking of which," the undertaker's eyes lit up and he straightened his battered top hat, "If you're serious about going after vampires, you should purchase coffins and graves in advance so they'll be ready for you."

"No. Thank you." Abe said, a bit faintly.

"Were there any survivors? Of the attacks, I mean." asked one of the agents, coming to Abe's rescue.

"Yes. Two of them are over there. A boy named David and a little girl." The undertaker said, pointing a bony finger at the two children.

Abe started towards the two children. The undertaker ran to keep up with him and had to clutch the brim of his top hat with one hand to keep it from falling off his head.

_Now we might be getting somewhere, _Abe thought, and then noticed that the undertaker was following him. Abe sighed. _Rotten eggs and the safety of mankind, rotten eggs and the safety of mankind, _Abe thought.

Author's Notes: Whew! That was a long chapter! I hope you all enjoyed the flashbacks to A Shadow to a Heart in Erica's dream, and now you also know why I decided to title this story 'Though Heaven Bar the Way'. Teehee, please tell me if you liked the humor I put in, it was a lot of fun to write! _Please_ review!


	2. Of Vampires and Garlic Bread

**Chapter 2: Of Vampires and Garlic Bread**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me, and neither does the Christmas carol "What Child is This?", Shakespeare, or his plays. However, Erica Schwarz, the vampire, and the plot that isn't from the movie is mine.

Author's Notes: Yay! So many reviews and new reviewers! Thank you all for the wonderful positive feedback! In this chapter the BPRD's adventures in Transylvania continue and things progressively head downhill, but with a little humor to lighten it up. Here are the German to English translations: 'Ja' is yes, 'Nein' is no, and 'Fräulein' is Miss. Enjoy the chapter!

**Psycho Llama:** blushes Awwww! You're so nice! By the way, what does (imho) mean?

**amyltrer: **Wow, you're Romanian? That's awesome! I'm surprised I got the weather and landscape right, I've never been there before! Just a tad creepy, no? As for Kroenen, don't worry, he'll be showing up soon, either in the next chapter or the one after that, which will only have him and Ilsa in it.

**iluvrocknroll:** An author? Well, I've thought about it…I guess I could! Thanks for the encouragement! I'll try to do more flashbacks since you liked them so much, and the freaky undertaker will definitely be serving up more humor.

**musicamode:** There'll be more humor in here, I like writing it and it lightens up the sometimes dark plot. (And it is kinda funny to imagine Abe driving!)

**Gestalt:** Yup, I love vampires! They're fun because they're the perfect villains and the perfect heroes all at once! Kroenen should be in the next chapter or the chapter after that, and it'll be _completely_ devoted to him and Ilsa.

**The Common Wind Deity:** Awesome new name! Humor at Abe's expense is kinda funny, isn't it?

"You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance."— Franklin P. Jones

"You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face."—Eleanor Roosevelt

_October, Present Day_

_Transylvania_

_Afternoon_

Hellboy wandered through the fields, the agents running to keep up with him. He set his foot down as he took a step and his huge boot flattened yet another patch of wheat. No doubt the villagers would be ranting about werewolves trampling their crops after they saw the mile long wandering path smashed through their wheat. Hellboy stopped to survey the landscape and took his cigar out of his mouth, blowing a stream of curling smoke into the chilly autumn air.

There was the dry crunch of boots crushing wheat as Agent Clay stopped beside him, staring at the same thing Hellboy was coolly examining. Up to this point they hadn't found anything of interest. Emphasis on the words 'up to this point'.

Ahead of them the well kept fields of crops continued, rank after rank of stalks and leaves turned a beautiful golden brown by the nippy autumn air. Sparse trees dotted the landscape, most of them barely holding onto half of their gold or red autumn leaves. However, the fields came to an abrupt halt as if a giant scythe had swung down and sheared off the edge of the fields. Beyond the fields was a huge expanse of barren land with only brown grass clinging to the soil and the occasional blasted and twisted tree. And right in the middle of the desolation rose a few equally barren hills, and on top of one of the hills, right up against the base of the towering mountains, was a gigantic, ancient and abandoned castle built of black and grey stone. The towers rose towards the sky like the razor sharp teeth of some gigantic beast intent on tearing the clouds to shreds. The castle's windows stared out over the land like blank, soulless eyes. A single snaking path wound up the hill to the iron doors of the castle.

There were several more crunching noises as the rest of the agents finally caught up to Hellboy and Agent Clay. A gust of wind tossed the fields of wheat, making it look like the Agents and Hellboy were wading waist deep through a golden sea that was the moat for the foreboding castle ahead of them.

"Do you think that's it?" asked one of the agents.

"No," said Hellboy sarcastically. His hunger had put him in a bad mood. "That _can't possibly_ be it! Perhaps the vampire's hangin' out back at the village in some quaint little baker's shop, covered in flour and makin' pastries!"

"Okay," Clay said, "that castle isn't going anywhere, let's head back to camp. The others should be heading back. We need to find out what the others found."

"And get somethin' to eat." Hellboy muttered, his stomach rumbling.

XXXXX

_A Village in Transylvania, Romania_

"Whhaaaaa!" the little girl sobbed, clutching her teddy bear. A boy named David was standing beside her. He shifted from foot to foot looking very uncomfortable.

"Shhhhhh." Abe whispered, trying to calm the little girl. He was very glad his face was mostly covered up and couldn't frighten her.

To Abe's amazement, the girl actually stopped crying. She sniffled and peered up at him, her tearstained face glistening. "Anna's dead!" she said and then burst into tears again.

Abe was baffled. He didn't know what to do. Children were not something he had to deal with often. And it didn't help that most of the adult villagers were glowering at him as if he was being a bully.

Abe sighed and knelt on the ground. He gently touched the girl's arm. _Calm down_, he thought at her. The little girl took a few deep breaths and sniffled a few times, the last few tears trickling down her face. _That's better_, Abe thought. He reached out into her mind, sorting through the girl's memories and seeing them through her eyes—

Darkness. Screaming. The crunch of bones—Fear—Anna running, carrying the girl on her back—the church stairs—turning around and catching a glimpse of the vampire's pale face only a few feet away—fear—screaming—the world spun as Anna thrust her through the gap in the church doors—sitting up and seeing Anna, then seeing the vampire looming up behind her—Anna kicking the doors shut—

Abe pulled away from the girl. He had what he needed. "Go home," he said softly, "David, stay here."

The girl nodded at Abe, cast a glance at David, and then walked away.

"Well, I can't imagine that was helpful." The undertaker piped up, moving over to Abe like a hyperactive skeleton. His battered top hat sat crookedly on his head and his long stringy hair hung like limp rat tails around his gaunt face.

Abe closed his eyes and willed himself to be patient. "It was more helpful than you realize." he said.

"But not as helpful as this garlic and these crosses!" the undertaker announced. He grinned and produced several strings of garlic and a handful of large crosses from somewhere inside his dusty old formal jacket.

"I don't need those," Abe insisted. He was desperately trying to be polite. "Now, David—"

"Don't _need_ them?" the undertaker said incredulously, "Are you _trying_ to get yourselves killed? Not that I'm complaining, it would be good for business, but still…"

Abe slid a gloved webbed hand down his face in frustration. _Rotten eggs and the safety of mankind, rotten eggs and the safety of mankind, _Abe thought. He couldn't wait to leave the village, and specifically the undertaker, far, far, _far_ behind him.

XXXXX

_The BPRD's Makeshift Camp_

Erica sat in the back of one of the trucks sorting through crates of equipment and taking out anything they might need. There was a growing pile next to her of garlic, mirrors, crucifixes, wooden stakes, bullets filled with holy water, and various books. She paused in her work to glance at Agent Moss. He was standing next to the campfire he had built and was busily stirring the contents of one of the three enormous pots hanging over the fire. The delicious scent of spaghetti, coffee, and garlic bread was carried over to her by the wind.

She thought for a moment and then picked up a crucifix from the pile, walked over and set it on the small folding table where Agent Moss had put his cooking ingredients and utensils. He glanced up at her.

"Just in case." she said.

"Thanks," he replied as she sat down next to the fire. She started reading one of the books she had found in the crates and absentmindedly slid the silver cross pendent on her necklace back and forth on the chain.

"Erica?"

"Ja?"

"I'm gonna dig another couple of boxes of noodles out of the back of one of the trucks. Will you keep an eye on the food for me?"

"Sure." she said apprehensively.

"And I _mean_ an eye—don't touch anything!" he joked as he disappeared behind one of the trucks.

"Ha ha, very funny." she called after him.

Erica reluctantly glanced at the steaming pots of food. _God only knows why he left _me _in charge of watching the food cook. It would be better off if I didn't have anything to do with it. He must _want _it to get burned or something…Oh well, it should be fine—or at least better off—so long as I don't touch it,_ she thought.

She glanced around hoping to see Agent Moss coming back with the boxes of noodles. But no one was in sight. The entire countryside and road were devoid of any moving life, including birds. _He must be in the back of the truck still, _she thought. Erica took a last glance around and returned to reading.

XXXXX

Everything was perfectly silent except for the crackling fire and the gentle sound of the wind as Agent Moss opened the back of one of the trucks. _This place is really beautiful, _he thought, pausing to take a deep breath of the clean, crisp air. He climbed into the back of the truck and knelt next to one of the wooden crates and pried off the lid. He sorted through the contents, moving boxes of various foods aside so he could reach the large boxes of noodles in the bottom of the crate. _I better hurry up, Erica couldn't cook to save her life, _he thought with a grin.

Agent Moss was so intent on his task that he wasn't aware that something was slipping silently into the truck behind him. It snuck up on the unsuspecting Agent and stood behind him, waiting for the opportune moment.

"Here it is," Agent Moss said, pulling a box of noodles out of the crate.

The thing struck!

WHACK!

The unconscious Agent fell to the floor of the truck with the box of noodles still clutched in his hand.

The thing smiled in a self satisfied way and then silently climbed out of the truck and quietly closed the door, locking the Agent in the back of the truck. This way there would be no one to interfere with its mission.

The thing glanced around the corner of the truck, turning its attentions towards what it had come for: the young woman with the "T" shaped scar on her left cheek. She was still sitting beside the campfire, reading. The thing grinned wickedly. The young woman had no idea she was in danger.

XXXXX

Erica was completely absorbed in her book as she read over historical accounts of vampire killings and what had worked and what had been a complete disaster.

"Mmm. That smells good."

Startled, Erica dropped her book, jumped up and spun around, her right hand instinctively grasping the hilt of the baton sword strapped to her upper leg. A strange man was standing on the opposite side of the campfire, dressed head to toe in black and wearing a black cape and hood that hid his face. Erica was instantly wary, though she was careful not to let it show on her face. _Where did he come from?_ she wondered, _He wasn't there a moment ago, and the 'road', if you can call it that, was perfectly clear_._ And why didn't I hear him coming towards me?_

"Vhat are you cooking, Fräulein?" he asked in a courteous tone. His voice had a strong German accent to it. The man leaned over to look in the pots hanging over the fire.

Erica sighed and made a despairing gesture, her face a carefully constructed façade that an actor would have appreciated. "Two enormous pots of spaghetti, some bread, black coffee. The usual."

"So much food for someone vho is all alone." His eyes glittered from inside the depths of his hood as he spoke.

Erica didn't like the tone in his voice when he said the word 'alone, but she pretended to be cheerful and laughed. "Oh, all this isn't for me. I'm just keeping an eye on it until Agent Moss gets noodles out of one of the trucks." she had chosen her words carefully to discourage him from doing anything. _If he's up to something he'll be less likely to try it if he knows I'm not alone. And where is Agent Moss anyway? Shouldn't he have been back by now?_ she wondered.

But the strange man didn't leave as she had hoped, he continued standing by the fire and watching her. "Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?" she asked, hoping her questions would drive him away.

"Vhy yes, I vould." he said, his eyes glimmering strangely as if there was some sort of irony to his words.

_Great, now I'm stuck with him until he's finished eating, _Erica thought. She _really_ didn't like the tone in his voice when he spoke to her. It made her instantly suspicious. _Maybe that's because of dealing with Germans during WWII, _she thought, _But on the other hand…_Erica was careful not to turn her back on the man, if that was really what he was and not something else just pretending to be one, as she filled a bowl with spaghetti and a mug with coffee.

"Here." she said, handing the mug and bowl to the man while carefully standing as far as possible away from him.

He set the bowl and mud down on the folding table covered in cooking implements and supplies. She noticed that he put them down as far away as possible from crucifix lying on the table. "Thank you, Fräulein, but that vill not be necessary. I have tastes for… simpler things."

"Oh," she said, becoming even more uneasy by the moment. _Why won't he leave?_ she thought. But no, she thought she knew why—his words had betrayed him: they had double meanings to them. His actions over at the table had betrayed him. She just hoped she was wrong since he was right next to the crucifix on the table, making it hard if not impossible to reach it before he reached her._What else do I have?_ She thought quickly. There was always the cross on her necklace, or the one on her ring—then she got a better idea.

"Would you like some bread?" she asked, keeping up the pretense. She picked up the basket of bread, though she was ready at a moment's notice to pull out her blades. _But if he's what I think he is, then my blades won't do any good, _she thought.

"No thank you." the man said curtly, stalking toward her in a very menacing fashion. Immediately the air temperature felt like it had dropped by ten degrees. The man grinned and she saw his unnaturally long canine teeth gleam from the depths of his hood. Her suspicions were confirmed: he was a vampire. Maybe the one that had been murdering the villagers. She also knew the pretense between them was about to come to an abrupt end.

"Too bad. It's good bread," she said. Erica suddenly picked up a piece of the bread and held it out in front of her so it was only a few inches away from the "man's" face, "In fact, it's _garlic_ bread."

The man—no, _vampire_— hissed and quickly recoiled from her, stepping away from the folding table. Erica quickly took the opportunity to grab the crucifix she had left on the table. She dropped the garlic bread, drew one of her baton swords, and held the crucifix in front of her to make sure the vampire knew she wasn't going to back down. The vampire continued to back away from her until he was several feet beyond her reach. He stopped and stood up straight and tall as if in an effort to regain his composure.

"Clever girl," he hissed, "But my dear Fräulein, if it's a fight you vant you vill certainly get it. And your friend Agent Moss von't interrupt us, I've seen to _that!_"

The vampire's his posture changed as if he were about to attack her. Erica didn't back down. She braced herself to fight and raised her blade— Suddenly she heard voices. The agents were coming back. The vampire had obviously heard them too: his posture changed again, this time to a more defiant and dramatic one.

"Too bad. I vould have relished a battle vith you. Your reputation precedes you. However, I assure you that ve vill be seeing each other _very _soon." He swept his cape around him and retreated a few steps. "Until then, Fräulein." he whispered, and then vanished into thin air.

Erica stayed where she was, still wary and ready to attack should the vampire appear again. After a few seconds it appeared that he was really gone and she relaxed a little bit.

She had a vague nagging feeling in the back of her head, as if she had seen the vampire before. _I recognize him but I don't know who he is, _she thought,_ But that's ridiculous. All of the vampires I've met have been killed by the BPRD. And how could I recognize him when his hood covered his face? Still, there was something familiar about his voice. I _know_ I've heard it before, but where? _

Her ponderings were interrupted by Hellboy, Abe, and the agents as they appeared around a bend in the road. Abe looked exasperated and cold, and the scowl on Hellboy's face was practically shouting that he was ravenously hungry. Abe was the first one to look at Erica and realize something was wrong.

"Red." Abe said, touching Hellboy's sleeve.

"What?" H.B. said grumpily. He looked in the direction Abe was pointing and took in Erica's expression and the blade and crucifix in her hands, as well as the spilled basket of garlic bread and the abandoned book laying on the ground.

"Great. What'd we miss?" Hellboy asked heavily.

"A lot. Probably more than I did." she answered.

A loud banging and shouting came from one of the trucks. "Hey! Let me out of here! Anybody out there? Let me out!" yelled Agent Moss.

"I take that back, maybe I missed more than I thought." she muttered, casting a glance at the truck.

XXXXX

It took a little while for everything to get explained over lunch. Erica and Agent Moss told everyone what had happened at camp. Hellboy didn't have much to say about the castle, and despite his psychic abilities Abe hadn't found out much at the village, simply because the children had been unable to see very much in the dark.

They all sat around the campfire drinking steaming mugs of coffee and eating lunch. Hellboy was gobbling up his huge bowl of spaghetti at a speed that put a starving pack of lions gorging on an antelope to shame. Abe was sitting very close to the fire, bundled up in a few spare blankets and still shivering from the cold. He had taken off the disguise he had worn to the village and the shiny blue skin on his face and the clear plastic on his respirator reflected the flames of the fire in a very ghostly way.

"As far as the villagers know the attack was unprovoked. If the vampire is trying to get revenge they don't know why." said Abe as he munched happily on a rotten egg. Just as he had hoped, Erica had remembered to bring some. However, the agents on either side of him were looking a little sick due to the overpowering smell of his favorite snack.

Hellboy stopped shoveling spaghetti into his mouth long enough to speak. "Five dead, none of them for food, and they're sayin' it wasn't revenge?" he said disbelievingly.

"Maybe it isn't revenge on the villagers," Erica said quietly, "Maybe their deaths were just bait to lure us here."

"What?" Hellboy asked.

"The vampire said he would have enjoyed a battle with me. He also said my reputation preceded me, and that we would be seeing each other again soon. The only thing is I'm not so sure he meant me specifically, I think he meant the BPRD in general, like maybe he wanted revenge on all of us for something we did."

"This is just a shot in the dark, but maybe it's because we've killed vampires." Hellboy suggested a little sarcastically.

Abe nodded. "That makes sense. Erica, what else are you thinking?"

"Can't hide anything from you, can I?" she asked with as smile, "All right, as crazy as this sounds, I think I've seen him before."

"What?"

"I didn't recognize him," she said quickly, "It's just that his voice sounded familiar. I just don't know where I've heard it before."

"So it is possible that he's after you specifically," Abe said calmly, turning his dark eyes towards her.

"Possible, ja, but it's more likely that he's after us in general."

"We'll have to be extra careful then," Clay said decisively, "And we all better get moving if we want to get to that castle before evening."

It was another hour before everyone was finished eating and packing everything up. They broke camp and slowly, carefully drove down the dirt path and through the village. The villagers watched then go silently, a few of them looking sad and a few others making slashing gestures across their throats to symbolize they thought all the agents were going to be killed.

"Wow. Isn't it great to have the support and encouragement of the locals?" Erica said. She heard Hellboy laugh on the transmitter, he was in a better mood since he had eaten, despite having to travel in his crate again.

The last person they passed was a skeletal man in a battered top hat waving a sign around that read: Special Low Prices on Coffins and Funeral Services Tonight Through Tomorrow Afternoon!

_How wonderfully encouraging, _she thought sarcastically as they drove out of the village and started down the road towards the castle she could see sitting at the base of the mountains in the distance.

The road was so rocky and they had to drive so slowly that by the time they got to the castle it was evening and the short autumn day was quickly coming to an end. And it was starting to get cold—the Agents shivered a little while Abe huddled in his blankets.

The sun was rapidly falling towards the horizon as they drove along the snaking dirt road that led up to the iron doors of the castle. They parked the trucks a short distance from the doors and got out.

"That's not good." Agent Clay observed, watching the sun set, "Night is the time when that vampire will be the strongest."

"We can deal with it," H.B. said confidently, blowing a stream of smoke into the air as he tapped the ash off the end of his cigar. "It's too late anyhow, vampy will know we're here by now. If we don't go to him, he'll come to us."

Erica noticed the long, distorted shadows cast by a few twisted trees, the only things that seemed to be capable of growing in such a desolate landscape. Behind her the evening sky was darkening and the faint sparkle of stars could barely be seen. In front of her the sky darkened to an orange-red hue as the golden sun dipped below the horizon, steadily plunging the landscape into darkness. The wind was beginning to pick up and shriek eerily around the castle and through the bare branches of the gnarled trees.

_Why can't we ever face monsters in daylight? _Erica wondered as she toyed with the silver cross ring on her right hand.

The castle loomed over them as they gathered together next to one of the trucks. Hellboy took command, an idea already forming in his mind.

"Agents in two groups, the small one to stay with the trucks with Abe and the larger one to surround the castle and make sure nothing gets out of there. Clay, you're in charge of that one. If vampy gets out and makes it past the agents around the castle, the agents here at the trucks can go after it. Abe, research and try to keep tabs on where that thing is. Me, I'm goin' in." he said, starting to load his huge gun with bullets full of holy water, "And Erica, you asked us to save you some monsters, you're goin' in too."

"With you?" she asked, surprised. Hellboy usually preferred to work alone.

"No. You're goin' in first, and I'm comin' in after you. You're bait."

"Are you sure that's wise, Red? If the vampire is after her…" Abe warned, the concern obvious in his voice.

"Then he's sure to show up. And if he isn't, we're all part of the BPRD, and he won't like us trampin' through his cave of a castle. That's Plan B. He'll show up."

"Why do _I_ have to be bait?" Erica asked.

"Because I'm too big and Abe looks too strange, and you, um…" Hellboy paused, trying to find the right words.

Abe came to his rescue, realizing Hellboy wasn't the best at being tactful, "Um, someone that doesn't know you will assume you're not a huge threat."

"Not a huge _threat_? Do I _look_ like some airhead at a shopping mall? No! _Not a threat_—do you have _any idea_ how terrified people were of me during WWII—?"

"Of course, we know better," interrupted Abe, "Besides, this way you get the first chance at that vampire."

"Alright." Erica said, throwing up her arms in defeat, though she smiled a little. She started towards the trucks to collect the equipment she would need, "Cooking _and_ bait in the same day. You all are going to owe me…"

She quickly loaded her small handgun with smaller versions of the bullets Hellboy had picked up. Then she pulled her long brown hair back into a ponytail and then twisted it into a slightly messy knot on the back of her head and secured it with a hair clip.

Abe watched her. _Her hair looks pretty that way,_ he thought. But he knew that wasn't why she had pulled her hair back, she had done it because she wanted to prevent something from grabbing into her hair. He knew it was one of the things she had learned from her former teacher, Karl Kroenen, during WWII.

Erica grabbed a flashlight and shoved a crucifix and a wooden stake through her belt. She tucked a small mirror and some garlic into the pockets of her black trench coat. _That should do it,_ she thought, _The extra equipment plus my two baton swords, handgun, and various daggers should be enough._

She drew one of her baton swords faster than lightening. She smiled. It was time to go hunting.

XXXXX

Erica pushed open the heavy iron doors of the castle just enough for her to slip inside. The rusty hinges squealed in protest, making so much noise that had she had a cautious companion, they would have glared daggers at her. As it was, she was alone. And anyways, Erica didn't care about making noise. She was _trying_ to get the vampire's attention, she _wanted_ him to hear her. There was little chance of her being able to find the vampire by sneaking around and searching the castle, but by making noise she was bound to attract attention, as the vampire would wonder what fool had decided to come tramping around loud enough to wake the dead, or in this case, the undead.

However, Erica wasn't a fool.

As she stepped inside the castle, she went on full alert, aware of the danger she was in. She wasn't afraid, just cautious. She was confident in herself and her abilities, and in her friends outside. She hummed loudly in the hope she would be overheard and flicked on her flashlight as she slowly took another step inside.

She scrutinized the enormous foyer of the castle as she shone her flashlight around. The interior of the castle was just as dark and foreboding as the outside. The walls of the foyer were built of black stone and the floor was covered in dust. Something crunched as she took a step and she lifted her boot to see a piece of broken glass shining brightly in the yellow glow of her flashlight. Erica shone her flashlight over the floor and discovered that broken glass was scattered all over the dusty stone floor. _Probably from the shattered windows, _she thought, glancing up at the arched gothic windows set high up on the walls. It was because of these windows that the interior wasn't completely dark. The dim, coldly bluish light of evening filtered through the windows, casting strange deep shadows over everything and giving the castle a very sinister atmosphere._ Menacing is more like it_, she thought as she took another step inside. She stepped out of the crack of light that streamed in through the doors—and walked straight through an enormous spider web.

"Ew," she muttered, brushing the thin, clingy strands off of her skin.

"How's it look?" Hellboy's voice crackled over the transmitter.

"Old," she answered, "And full of cobwebs."

"Huh, I'm guessing you're sayin' that from experience." he laughed.

"Ja," she replied distractedly as she turned her flashlight up to the ceiling, wanting to be sure she wouldn't be attacked from above. The beam of light glittered on the dusty crystals of an enormous wrought iron chandelier that was draped with dust choked cobwebs. The chandelier was suspended from the center of the ceiling and a few gargoyles and decorative arches lined the walls, but that was all.

Satisfied, she walked deeper into the castle, wandering from room to room and carefully searching as she went. The fireplaces in the rooms were huge and empty and cold. The decorations and ancient, dry rotting furniture were still oddly beautiful in a morbid way She noticed that almost everything in the castle was black, white, or silver with the exception of the unraveling and mildew-covered rags of tapestries that clung to the stone walls like lichens. She passed a few paintings and a family's coat of arms. To her surprise, she noticed that the further she got into the castle the more it began to seem like an elaborate mansion or palace: the decorations were more ornate, the furniture in better condition, the floors made of marble and the walls decorated with wood paneling or white marble with decorative columns. Each room had its own decorative scheme: one was decorated with sea shells and another was a library full of books and exotic objects from faraway lands. _Maybe the first few rooms, foyer, and the outside of the castle—or whatever—are supposed to be a gothic theme, _she thought, _like the cathedrals in Europe._

The room she was in now was an enormous dusty dining room, the third or fourth one she had gone through in addition to several parlors and ball rooms. She noticed the thick dust on the red carpet and saw her own footprints behind her—at least that meant she could find her way back easily, and, possibly, that the vampire hadn't been in this room.

That was when she realized she wasn't making nearly enough noise to be found in a huge place like this. Humming wasn't good enough. _What about singing? _She winced as the thought crossed her mind. She didn't sing badly but she didn't sing well either, she was only mediocre at best. Singing, like cooking, simply was _not_ her thing. _Oh well, if it's in the interest of the mission…_she thought.

"What child is this, who, laid to rest on Mary's lap, is sleeping? Whom angels greet with anthems sweet, while shepherds watch are keeping?" The song sounded odd as it echoed off the walls in the huge spaces of the palace, coming back to her sounding thin, reedy, and very eerie, like the wind sighing through gnarled branches on a moonless and cold night. Erica grimaced a little. She definitely wasn't good at singing, and this just compounded that. _Maybe reciting poetry or something would be better,_ she thought. She wandered through the next few rooms while reciting parts of plays Shakespeare had written, some distant part of her feeling obscurely idiotic because she was reciting poetry to thin air, even though she knew something or someone was probably listening to her.

Erica's grey eyes darted around at every shadow, waiting for the vampire to hear her. She was being careful, she didn't want to be making so much noise that _she_ wouldn't hear the vampire when he arrived. He would be walking quietly, VERY quietly, and she didn't want to be surprised.

Her voice echoed off the stone walls and her boots tapped on the stone floor as she walked, her flashlight lighting the way. After about ten minutes of this she looked out a window as she passed through a room and discovered that it was completely dark outside.

"Find anything yet?" Hellboy asked over the radio.

"Nein. Just dust and more dust. This place is like a _maze_."

_And I'm tired of searching this way_, she thought. It would be much quicker to use her visions, which she could use find out specific things like dates and times or what might happen if she went to a certain place.

"I'm going to try using my visions, okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, just be careful. Don't take too long and give vampy a chance to sneak up on you."

"I won't." she replied.

"Let's find out where you really are," she muttered to herself as she carefully scanned the hall she was in to make sure it was safe. When she was sure, she shut her eyes and asked herself a question.

_Where is he?_

In reply, an image appeared in her head as if she were running at an impossible speed through the rooms in the palace, the walls racing by her in a blur, but just slow enough for her to recognize things so she could find the way later. A suit of armor—a painting of a horse—a blue parlor—a huge hall that attached to the foyer—the images came to an abrupt halt, showing her a gigantic ball room. The ceiling soared up at least four stories and was decorated with paintings. The floor was covered in a checkerboard of black and white marble tiles. And there were white marble statues along the walls—

Erica opened her eyes. That was enough. She couldn't risk standing in one place with her eyes shut for very long, it would be too easy for the vampire to sneak up on her and kill her. At least she knew where to go now.

"Red, I know where he is," she said over the radio.

"Great. I'll come after you in a few minutes," Hellboy replied, "Just keep your locator belt on so I can find you. And good luck."

She quickly exited the room and followed the sequence of images from her vision, this time walking as quietly as she could. Now that she knew where the vampire was, she wanted to sneak up on him instead of giving him a chance to hide or get ready to attack her. She walked through a long hall that had a suit of armor in it and was confronted with a place where another hall intersected with hers. She looked down the corridors and chose the one with the painting of the horse, which led to a blue parlor. She went out through the door on the other side of the room and found herself in a hall with a high ceiling just off the foyer. There was a pair of black, fifteen foot tall double doors at the end of the hall, and instinctively she pulled one open and slipped inside.

The sight that met her took her breath away.

The ballroom was at least a hundred feet in length down the two longest sides on her left and right. The two shorter walls were roughly eighty feet long. There were no windows. Each of the two longest walls had a long, continuous pedestal that was four feet high and made of white marble, and each pedestal was covered in life-size idealized statues of people, horses, and creatures—lots of creatures, most of which were grotesque monsters. Behind these statues the white walls were covered in ornate gold and silver carvings. The walls rose up four stories to a ceiling that was painted with angels and the sun on the left half, and demons and storm clouds on the right half. All four walls had long balconies that ran the length of the wall and overlooked the extravagant ballroom from the second and third levels of the palace. The floor was a huge expanse of black and white marble arranged like a chessboard, and was covered in a thin layer of dust. At the far end of the room the length of the wall was almost completely covered in a long, ten foot tall mirror in a thick, ornate gilt frame. To the left of the mirror was a black piano, sitting there as if just waiting for a small orchestra to start playing.

But all the beauty was spoiled by one thing: _That vampire is in here with me,_ p_roviding he wasn't on a balcony and decided to leave, _she thought as she scanned the area. But even if he had, he couldn't have gone far: the entire room was lit by flickering torches and the lights on the elaborate golden chandeliers overhead. She glanced at the ceiling again to make sure no nasty surprises were hanging over her. As she did so, she noticed the painting on the ceiling and grinned ironically. _I don't know about angels watching me, but there's a demon in this room that is,_ she thought.

"I know you're here!" she shouted, her voice ringing in the enclosed space.

There was no answer. But then again, she hadn't expected one either.

She held her baton sword in an attack position and with this clutched in her right hand she slowly walked down the length of the ballroom, shining the beam of her flashlight into the shadows between the statues as she went. Nothing. She ended up at the other end of the room, the one with the huge mirror and piano. She cautiously knelt down and looked under the piano. Nothing. She eyed the lid of the huge instrument and carefully put down her flashlight and grabbed the edge of the lid. She paused a moment, her heart beating quickly, and then threw it open. It was empty.

Erica closed the lid. Her grey eyes fell on the enormous mirror in front of her. It was mostly intact except for a few roughly round spider web-like cracks as if heavy objects had been hurled at it sometime in the past. The broken sections of the mirror shattered her reflection and the reflection of the room into a thousand mismatched and confusing shards of images. There was a thick layer of dust around the edges of the mirror and on the carved gold frame, but that didn't stop the mirror from reflecting the ballroom and making it seem as if it stretched on forever.

Curious, she examined the mirror. _I wonder if the mirror is a door to a secret passage that the vampire is hiding in, since he doesn't seem to be in the ballroom_, she thought.

As she stared at the mirror, the reflection of the statues' empty marble eyes stared back at her, their frozen stone faces seeming to express both a mixture of astonishment at her presence and a menacing quality. The empty eyes simply stared.

But not all the statues' eyes were empty. And not all the figures on the long pedestals were carved from marble. A man dressed all in black was crouched in the shadows between two statues of grotesque, bat winged gargoyles, his electric blue eyes fixed on the young woman examining the mirror. Between his pale skin, the shadows, and his black hooded cape he did appear to be just another statue. But he wasn't. His thin lips slowly curled upwards into a smile, the first movement he had made since the young woman entered the ballroom. He had seen the 'T' shaped scar on her left cheek, she was the right one. _This will be fun and so easy_, he thought.

He slowly and gracefully stepped down from the pedestal to the marble floor, his boots not making the slightest sound against the stone. His electric blue eyes were locked on the young woman's black clad figure and the blade she was holding. His black cape swished and swirled noiselessly around him as he walked boldly up behind the young woman who was still examining the mirror. But he wasn't worried that she would see his reflection in the mirror as he crept silently up behind her: he hadn't had a reflection for centuries. After all, vampires don't have a reflection in a mirror.

Erica gave up on trying to figure out how the mirror opened, if it even did at all. _Perhaps it really is only a decoration_, she thought. She glanced up at the reflection of the statues, all of which appeared to be staring at her. It was creepy, all those reflected empty gazes made her feel like she was being watched. She considered the mirror again, thinking how odd it was. _It's strange that a vampire would have such a huge mirror in his castle. It's not like he could see himself in one—_a terrible, frightening realization dawned on her, _How long have I been standing here looking at this mirror? The vampire could be right behind me and I wouldn't even know it! _she thought with horror.

Just as the thought crossed her mind she became aware of a very uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She shuddered as an icy cold shiver went down her back like the water from a melting icicle was running down her spine. Something told her not to turn around and look behind her. She shivered again, and not just because the palace was cold. Despite all the lit torches and the chandeliers the room seemed to darken and become more disturbing and threatening by the second.

She strained her ears for the slightest sound, knowing instinctively that she wasn't alone. Her heart hammered in her chest as she waited tensely. She heard only silence—and then a soft, barely audible rustle. Instantly, all the lights in the ballroom went out, plunging the room into a strange, shadowed twilight. Startled, Erica jumped a little but stayed where she was, facing the mirror as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She glanced down at her belt and mentally cursed as she realized she had left her flashlight lying on the floor. _And based on how dark it is, the flashlight's probably gone, _she thought. The only light in the room came from the pale blue glow of the light on her locator belt. She briefly considered turning it off, but it would only make things worse. Clearly the vampire already knew where she was, plus, vampires could see in the dark. And if her locator belt was turned off Hellboy would have no chance of finding her.

She felt a sick, tense feeling in her stomach, the sort of feeling you get when your brain instinctively knows you're in danger and screams at you to run. Erica fought down the urge to run and tried to slow her breathing. She held her baton sword in her right hand and slowly inched her left hand toward the crucifix on her belt—

An icy cold hand suddenly seized her left wrist in a grip like iron. Erica's blood froze in her veins even as she whirled around in shock. In the darkness she saw a noble and very pale face only a few inches away from hers, the skin as pallid and white as death. A pair of electric blue eyes bored into her grey eyes.

Without thinking she struck out at the vampire, shoving her baton sword right through his chest. She felt the lethally sharp blade slide smoothly between his ribs and become lodged against something. The vampire gasped and arched backwards as if in pain—but it was short lived. He quickly regained his composure and smiled pleasantly and sinisterly at the same time, revealing his two very long canine teeth—a blade couldn't harm a vampire.

Still crushing her wrist in his icy cold hand, the vampire used his free hand to idly pull the blade from his chest and toss it away. The baton sword hit the floor with a chilling metallic ring before skittering across the floor out of her reach.

"Oh my god—" she whispered, realizing her mistake.

"I'm afraid God has nothing to do vith it, Fräulein." he whispered, so near to her that she felt his cold breath on her face. His electric blue eyes seemed to glow insanely in the darkness.

Erica hastily grabbed for the crucifix on her belt, but he grabbed her and pulled her into a constricting and icy cold embrace. She struggled uselessly against him in the darkness and felt a sharp pain on the back of her head as he struck her. Stunned by the force of the blow she toppled backwards and hit the marble floor so hard it knocked the breath out of her. She gasped for breath and struggled to cling onto consciousness as the world started to blur and go dark. She glanced up at the ceiling and saw that the demons painted on the ceiling appeared to be laughing and pointing at her. Then she was falling blindly through a smothering darkness as her conscious mind spiraled down into oblivion. After that she knew no more.

Author's Notes: Cliffie! Hehe, aren't I evil? I hope you enjoyed the humor and the very long chapter. Please tell me what you think and review!


	3. Murderous Intentions and The Warning

**Chapter 3: Murderous Intentions and The Warning**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Volker Maynard the vampire, the undertaker, and the plot that isn't from the movie is mine.

Author's Notes: Thanks for all the wonderfully encouraging reviews! Here's the much awaited chapter three. This chapter begins where the cliffhanger left off, and has the first of many fight scenes in it. As always here are the German to English translations: 'Ja' is yes, 'Nein' is no, 'Guten abend' is good evening, and 'Fräulein' is Miss. Enjoy the chapter!

**The Common Wind Deity:** Yeah, I'm really proud of those descriptions too. Thanks for noticing them! There's a bit of humor in here as well, as well as more suspense. And lots of action!

**Psycho Llama: **Thanks for telling me what imho meant! No, vampy isn't the guy she liked, though I did consider it when I started writing. Sadly, Leonard was poisoned because Kroenen was jealous, so that kind of ruled that out. Plus vampy has black hair, and Leonard had blond. Kroenen and Ilsa will make a murderous appearance in the next chapter.

**iluvrocknroll:** I wrote a huge part for vampy since you like him so much. Cheers!

**musicamode:** Teehee! Cliffies are evil, but wonderful plot devices!

**Gestalt:** Nope, Moss isn't dead. But only because he has to live long enough for the Sammaels to kill him! (cue evil laughter)

"Strong reasons make strong actions."—William Shakespeare

_October, Present Day_

_A Castle in Transylvania_

_Night_

Hellboy stomped through the castle, wandering through the maze of rooms. He brushed some cobwebs out of his way and then continued on, tracking Erica's position using the blinking blue light on his locator belt.

"Hey, E., did ya find vampy yet?" he asked, using the radio transmitter he was carrying.

He waited for an answer. But the only thing he got was the crackle of static.

"Erica? You there?"

More static.

"Hmm. Maybe she did find vampy." Hellboy said, talking to himself. He briefly entertained the mental image of Erica kicking some serious vampire butt. He grinned.

"Hey, Erica, I'm on my w—"

Hellboy was interrupted by a loud click on the radio transmitter. _That's not good. Sounds like her transmitter was just turned off, _he thought. He glanced down at his belt and saw that her blue light was still blinking. _At least I can still find her, _he thought.

As that thought crossed his mind, the blue light flickered and died. Hellboy stared at it for a moment, feeling a sinking feeling in his stomach. He tapped the light with one of his stone fingers, hoping to jar the electronics back into working. Nothing happened. The blue bulb stayed dark.

"Crap!" Hellboy cursed. He quickly radioed Abe. "Hey, Blue? We've got a problem. Erica's transmitter and locator belt are off."

"I know," Abe replied, his voice slightly distorted by the radio and his concern, "Red, do you want me to come in and meet you?"

Hellboy thought for a moment. Abe would be able to find Erica, but he didn't know where Hellboy was, and by the time Abe found him, it might be too late to help Erica.

"Nah. Stay there. Just tell me when I'm getting closer to her."

"Why do I see this turning into a grotesque parody of a children's game?" asked Abe.

"What?"

"You know, the one where you say 'hot' when someone's getting closer to finding something you hid, or 'cold' when they're moving too far away."

"Hey, whatever works. So tell me where I am." H.B. said as he started walking.

"Ice cold. You're at the opposite end of the castle compared to where she is. _And_ you're walking farther away from her."

"Great, just great." Hellboy muttered as he turned around and quickly started off in the right direction.

XXXXX

Erica started to wake up, shocked to be alive. The first two things she realized even before she opened her eyes or woke up properly were that she was very uncomfortable and cold. The third thing she realized was that she had a pounding headache and a painful lump on the back of her skull that felt like someone had bashed a hammer against her head. She groaned and slowly opened her eyes—and immediately discovered why she was so uncomfortable. She was standing up, her back pressed against a black marble column. Her arms had been pulled behind her and around the column and her wrists tied tightly together.

"_Scheiße!_" she cursed, pulling at the ropes.

Her long black trench coat was hanging loosely and lopsidedly off her shoulders, which explained why she was cold, considering she was only wearing a black v-necked T-shirt underneath it. The pockets of her trench coat hung limply, her equipment and weapons were gone. Clearly the vampire had taken the opportunity to relieve her of all her weapons.

She looked up and surveyed the room, expecting to see the smirking face of the monster that had captured her. Strangely enough he didn't appear to be there. The room itself was enormous and resembled the inside of a cathedral built of black stone. It was also as silent and oppressive as a crypt. The ceiling was far overhead and the walls were decorated by huge, soaring black columns of carved stone. Directly across from her and some forty feet away was a pair of large iron doors with odd, evil looking designs swirling across their surfaces. On the long walls on her left and right were ranks of stained glass windows, some of which were broken. The stained glass designs were made up of black, purple, blue, and blood red glass and depicted horrible grotesque monsters. The walls were decorated with a variety of medieval weaponry that included swords, spears, crossbows, and maces. The black marble column she was tied to was in the center of the farthest end of the room and was ten feet tall, ending at the top in jagged bits of stone. The column, as well as the end of the room it was on, was on a dais raised a few feet off the floor. A few shallow steps of black stone led the way up to the dais. The room was lit by the pale moonlight and a few flickering candles in six foot tall, wrought iron candelabras, which left most of the room lurking in dark shadows.

A cold wind blew in through the gaps in the broken stained glass windows and the pale light of the ghostly moon glittered on the shards of colored glass lying scattered across the stone floor. Erica shivered and tugged at the ropes that bound her wrists. They didn't move. She glanced out the windows at the moon and mentally cursed. _How long have I been unconscious? And where the hell is Hellboy? _She thought. She glanced down at her locator belt and noticed the blue light was off. Her radio was also off. Obviously the vampire had decided to take precautions. _Great, _she thought, _That won't help things. Now Abe is going to have to help Hellboy find me._

She pulled at the ropes again and twisted her wrists, trying to get some slack in the unyielding ropes that bound her. Her fingers searched blindly behind her back for the end of the rope. She finally seized it and awkwardly followed it up to a complex knot that she knew would be impossible to untie. She yanked at the ropes again, this time throwing all of her weight and strength into it. The ropes cut into her wrists and she gasped. But when she stopped pulling she discovered that she could move her wrists a little more. She smiled grimly, it wasn't enough to escape, but it was a start.

_If only I had a dagger or something,_ she thought. Then a secretive smile crossed her face as she felt the small lump in one of her boots: a knife. The vampire hadn't found all of her weapons. _It's a good thing I always take extra precautions_, she thought, _Not that the mission is going badly, but it could be going a whole hell of a lot better. _She tugged at the ropes again. _Maybe if I get the ropes loose enough I can twist around and reach the knife in my boot, _she thought, _And I had better do something fast, before that vampire comes back, since Hellboy isn't showing any sign of showing up._

She was just starting to yank on the ropes again when the silence was broken.

"Vell, vell, vell. Vhat have ve here?" a voice said from the darkness, drifting softly through the cold night air.

Erica's head jerked up just in time to see the tall, thin figure of a man slink skillfully out of the shadows beside a stone column and slowly approach her. His long black hair was loosely pulled back behind his head and was tied at the base of his neck with a black ribbon. A few wisps of his hair fell into his ashen face and with a practiced gesture he tucked them behind his ear with the long, sharp fingernails on his hand. The vampire was dressed in black but his clothes were very different than the stereotypical vampire's clothes depicted by popular culture. He had his own unique debonair, military-like style and wore a knee-length black frock coat with a low collar that came up to just below his jaw. The coat had silver buttons down the front and silver embroidery along the cuffs. He wore black pants and knee length black boots. His long sweeping cape fastened at his throat with an intricate silver brooch.

She watched the elegant man warily as he approached her with a very pleased expression on his face. He leisurely came up the steps and stopped a few feet away from her near the edge of the dais. He smiled pleasantly, displaying his long sharp canine teeth.

"Guten abend. It is _so_ good to see you again, Erica Schwarz," he said mockingly, making an overly formal bow.

"Oh, Volker Maynard, it's you." Erica said unenthusiastically. Once again she was acting, inside she was both alarmed and curious as she recognized the vampire that stood before her.

"You could be a little more enthusiastic and courteous after I've given you such a _vonderful _velcome instead of killing you instantly for trespassing in my castle." Volker's thick German accent contorted his words and made the w's sound like v's.

"Yeah, your welcome is great," she replied sarcastically, "I feel really welcome seeing as I've been tied to a column. I'd hate to find out what you do to your _unwelcome_ visitors."

The vampire laughed appreciatively. "Karl Kroenen always said you had a vicked sense of humor."

She shuddered at the vampire's words. _Kroenen used to say that to me all the time, _she thought. But that was in the past. She and Kroenen hadn't seen each other since he had tried to kill her on October 9, 1944.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it, since you and Ilsa visited me. And I did so enjoy killing that arrogant official from the Allied Forces for the two of you. Though I must say, his blood didn't taste all that good. But that is in the past. It truly has been too long since our last meeting, don't you agree?"

"I saw you a few hours ago at our camp," she retorted.

He gestured at her dismissively. "That doesn't count. I knew you vould figure out vho and vhat I vas. Ve both kept up the pretense. It was a case of things that go unsaid, vhere ve both knew _exactly_ vhat vas going on, and yet never acknowledged it verbally. And you see, my predictions about our meeting again _did_ come true, Fräulein Erica," Volker announced dramatically, his voice echoing in the enormous room. An expression of curiosity suddenly crossed his face. "I can still call you Fräulein, can't I? I assume that you still have yet to marry since I noticed you're not vearing a vedding ring."

"You and everyone else." she replied dryly.

"So I take it that you're not married then," he said with a sharp-toothed smiled, "Not that it makes a difference, of course. Available, unavailable, it makes no difference to me," he shrugged, "Though in the case of vomen vho are available, it means I don't have to deal vith a self righteous husband bent on revenge or a fiancé vho has grandiose dreams of rescuing the damsel in distress and riding off into the dawn to live happily ever after." Volker's voice was full of scorn as he spoke. "I just find it interesting that over the past sixty years you never got around to marrying."

"It's a little hard to have a romantic relationship when the world believes I never existed. And most of the people who know the truth think I'm dead."

"But you're not, as I'm happy to see," he said. An expression crossed Volker's face that Erica didn't like. The vampire's eyes glittered. "But as happy as I am to see you again, it pains me to think of the circumstances of our meeting, vhat vith you sneaking around my castle like a thief in the night," he paused and his electric blue eyes stared at her piercingly, "Yes, sneaking around like a thief. Or a murderer."

"You're accusing _me_ of being a murderer?" she asked in disbelief, "That's like the pot calling the kettle black."

"Oh, I don't know if I vould call what I do _murder_," he said calmly, "Do you call it murder vhen you kill and eat something? No. Though perhaps you could consider my recent activities to be murder or vanton killing—_I_ certainly vould." He smiled, his face devoid of remorse. "So, vhy don't you tell me vhat you're doing here all alone."

Erica stayed silent, torn between lying and telling the truth. _He's playing games with me_, she thought,_ He already knows why I'm here. It's not like running him through with a sword was exactly subtle. I wonder, does he just want me to admit to trying to kill him so he has an excuse to kill me?_

Volker watched her, looking faintly amused. "Nothing to say?" he said, slowly circling around her, "I'm surprised. I imagined you had a reason for trying to find me. I don't get many visitors. Though I must admit, I rather enjoy having a captive audience. I hope you find the ropes to be comfortable." As he spoke he was standing behind her and he just barely brushed her wrists with his ice cold hands.

"Yes, quite," she replied in a clipped tone, flinching away from his touch as much as the ropes allowed. She wasn't at all happy about having him behind her where she couldn't see him. She glanced down at her turned off locator belt. _I might as well lie to him, _she decided, _It'll give Hellboy more time to find me_. She turned her head to the side, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of Volker around the column. "Volker, as comfortable as I am, I am still your guest. Why am I tied up? It is _most_ improper." she said.

"But as an uninvited guest you should explain your reason for visiting me so unexpectedly." he whispered in her ear.

Erica flinched at his cold breath but kept up the pretense. "Oh, you know, I was in the area and just decided to stop by and reminisce about old times." she said offhandedly.

Volker walked around the column so he was standing in front of her. He ran one of his long, sharp fingernails down her cheek and grinned when she flinched ever so slightly. His grin faded a little and he looked at her a bit crossly, but also with a hint of amusement.

"You are extremely bold for someone in your position, Erica. I'll admit your lies are amusing, but I do vish you vould simply tell me vhy you came to visit. But no matter, I know vhy you're here."

Volker gestured to a small pile of objects lying on the floor close by. The pile was mostly hidden in shadow which explained why she had missed it earlier. The vampire idly pushed one of the tall, wrought iron candelabras closer to the pile, making a horrible screeching sound as the iron grated against the stone. The candles shed a yellowish light over the pile, allowing Erica to see it more clearly.

"Let's see," Volker murmured, sorting through the pile and turning objects over with the toe of his black boot, "A small mirror, garlic, a crucifix, a vooden stake, a handgun, and various daggers. Oh, and two baton swords. I took the liberty of relieving you of their burden when I carried you up here. Being stabbed through the chest twice in one veek or so vith those things is more than enough to teach me to confiscate them immediately."

_Twice in one week? _Erica wondered, _What is he talking about? I only stabbed him once. It doesn't make sense—unless someone else stabbed him—_

"And I have also noticed that you are vearing a silver crucifix necklace. I take it that you're hunting vampires." He said, his frigid voice accusingly sharp. He raised his eyebrows and his blue eyes shone eerily. "I'm hurt," he said mockingly, "The last time ve met ve vere allies."

"Things change." Erica's voice was hard. Her memories of the horrible crimes she had committed in the past as Kroenen's accomplice were far too vivid for her to forget them. All of the incidents were filled with deceit and blood, and at least one had included the vampire that stood before her.

"Yes, I know. Vho vould know better than a vampire vho has seen the centuries pass by? But vhy vould you vant to kill me?" he asked innocently, clearly pretending that he didn't know the answer.

"_I_ don't. It wasn't _my_ idea. Believe me, it's nothing personal, it's just my job. _And_ you've been killing the local villagers." she added accusingly.

"Oh, that." Volker said offhandedly as if it was nothing, "The villagers' deaths vere just part of my plan to lure you to Transylvania. You probably realized before you got here that the villagers veren't attacked because I vas hungry. I bit them and drained off enough blood so it vas obvious they had been attacked by a vampire. I merely broke their necks to finish them off." He looked at her in a very self satisfied way. "And since you're here, tied to that column, it vould appear that my plan was highly effective."

"You?" she asked cautiously, knowing she wasn't going to like the answer, "'You' meaning me or the BPRD?"

"Vhy you, of course."

Erica's mouth went dry. _This isn't good,_ she thought. "Why?" she asked.

"Things change," he replied, throwing her words back at her, "Things change, unlike you over these past years. You barely look any older than the day ve first met, more than sixty years ago."

"If you haven't heard about it, I'm immortal."

"Oh, but I _have_ heard," he said, his blue eyes lighting up as he moved closer to her, "And not just about that. Even I vho spend most of my time shut avay from the vorld, even _I_ know about October 9th, 1944. I know _all about_ how you betrayed the Thule Occult Society and the forces of darkness!" he snarled at her. Volker quickly regained control of himself and continued in a calmer tone, though his eyes glimmered dangerously. "It's quite a drastic career change you've made, Erica, from helping the forces of evil to fighting us. But as ve have both said, things change."

He smiled again, showing off his long fangs and leaning forward so their faces were almost touching. Erica looked at his electric blue eyes, for the first time feeling apprehensive.

"Things change," he murmured, "And you and I are no longer allies because of your betrayal of the Thule Society. And I happen to know that there is a considerable reward being offered for your capture. Not all the members of the Thule Society are dead and gone, no! They asked me to retrieve you for them—_alive_. And they promised me that I could vatch vhat they did to you." Volker grinned cruelly. Clearly he knew what horrors lay in store for her at the hands of the Thule Occult Society.

"It's nice to know I'm wanted." Erica said, trying desperately to make light of the situation even as fear bubbled up inside her. _If the Thule Occult Society is involved this is a whole _hell_ of a lot more dangerous for me than I expected, _she thought. Her heart raced inside her chest and she cringed inwardly as she remembered what the Thule Society did to traitors like her: They were sacrificed to the Seven Gods of Chaos by the Head of the Thule Society, destroying the person's soul in the process. An image flashed before her eyes of her chained to a block of black stone in an underground hall, with one of Kroenen's daggers stabbed through her heart. Her eyes were open but empty, and her blood was slowly, thickly oozing down the sides of the stone block and dripping to the floor—Erica forced the image away, her blood pounding in her ears.

_Where _is_ Hellboy? What's _taking_ him so long? He better get here fast!_ Erica thought. She glanced nervously at the huge iron doors at the opposite end of the hall and then back at the vampire.

Volker stared into her face as if considering something. "But vhile a reward is all vell and good, at this point money isn't much use to me, is it now, Erica? And I can think of a few other things I vould rather do vith you than hand you over to the remaining members of the Thule Society. You see, it just so happens that both the Thule Society and I have claims on your blood. I have a score to settle vith you for killing several other vampires vho happened to be dear friends of mine." He licked his thin lips meaningfully.

"Well," Erica said nervously, pressing her back against the black marble column to put some distance between them, "It's good to know I won't be seeing the Thule Occult Society any time soon. I doubt I'd receive a warm welcome." _I really don't like where this is going, _Erica thought,_ And he _can_ actually kill me if that's what he's after—I'm only immortal until I'm wounded to the point that any mortal human would die._ It didn't help matters that she was weaponless except for the crucifix necklace she wore and the silver ring on her right hand that had a cross on it. The ring was a little too big and she could feel that it had turned around so the part with the crucifix on it was now on the palm side of her hand. Suddenly she got an idea. _If I can get my right hand loose I might be able to keep him away since crosses will burn vampires if they touch them, _she thought. She immediately went to work, carefully twisting and pulling at the ropes so that Volker wouldn't notice she was trying to get free.

"You misunderstand me," the vampire replied, reaching forward and gripping her shoulders tightly in his cold hands, "I don't intend for you to be seeing anyone else. In fact, I'd like to invite you to dinner."

He grinned broadly and licked his lips again, giving Erica the unnerving impression that he was about to go for her neck, which, considering he was a vampire, wasn't all that unlikely. Unsurprisingly these thoughts didn't do anything to relive her fears.

"As nice as that is, I'd rather decline the invitation, thank you." she said uneasily. She knew what he was suggesting, and it wasn't a nice turkey dinner. Erica pulled harder at the ropes and succeeded at sliding her right hand free a little bit before it got caught in the ropes again.

"No, no, no. You are my guest, I _insist_ that you stay for dinner!" Volker's blue eyes gleamed and his freezing cold hands snaked up to touch her neck ever so gently, though he carefully avoided touching her silver cross necklace. "You see, anything else vould be _so_ impolite."

Erica frantically tugged at the ropes—her hand was almost out! Volker's face was still only inches away and the almost crazed look in his electric blue eyes was a very frightening reminder of what he was about to do to her.

"The blood of an immortal. I vonder how that vill taste?" he hissed, his eyes glittering with eager anticipation, "Especially since it's been _cursed_ by your treachery. Oh Erica! I can only hope that you enjoy dinner as much as I vill!"

Erica struggled against the ropes as he started to learn forward towards her and drew back his lips in a wicked smile, revealing two long and very sharp teeth.

"And now farewell Erica, Kroenen's Angel of Death!" the vampire said as he grasped her shoulders and leaned forward to bite her.

_Screw this!_ she thought. Erica wrenched her right hand free of the ropes, ripping the skin off her knuckles in the process. She slammed her bleeding hand against the vampire's cheek and pressed her palm and the cross on her ring against his pallid skin.

"Aaaaaaaaarrrrrggghhh!" Volker shrieked and literally flung Erica away from himself. He stumbled backwards with his hand clawing at his smoking cheek and nearly fell down the stairs. The vampire snarled and howled as he stumbled away from the edge of the dais, one hand still clasped to his left cheek as the lingering fire of the burn deepened his agony. Shaking, Volker took his hand away and revealed a black burn mark in the exact shape of the cross on her ring, only it was many times bigger. The black burn mark was surrounded by horribly blistered fiery red skin that contrasted sharply with his ashen face. Shocked by the intense pain, Volker stared blankly into space, gently touching his burned face. Erica smiled in grim satisfaction and turned around so she could free her left hand—

A pair of ice cold hands violently seized her throat and her free wrist and forcibly spun her around. Volker's pale face was mere centimeters from her own and the noxious stench of his burned flesh was sickening. The vampire was furious. His electric blue eyes were blazing crazily with rage and pain.

"_Damn_ you!" he snarled, baring his teeth menacingly. He relentlessly tightened his grip on her throat and shook her like she was a rag doll. "You little vitch! I'll not play games vith you any longer!"

Still choking her, Volker roughly pushed her against the column and forced her free wrist down so she couldn't defend herself. She kicked at him as hard as she could but it was useless—blinded by his rage, Volker didn't seem to feel anything. He released his grip on her throat and forced her head back, exposing her neck as he leaned forward with his mouth open. Her heart raced and she could only watch in horror as his fangs descended towards her skin—

_BANG!_

The huge iron doors to the room were flung open. Or more specifically, they were torn off their hinges and flung onto the stone floor. Without releasing his hold on Erica, Volker jerked his head up and looked toward the doors—just in time for a huge red demon to deliver a massive punch to the vampire's face. The force of the blow knocked Volker off of Erica and sent him flying into the wall.

"Hey kiddo!" said Hellboy, stopping beside Erica.

"It's about time!" she yelled, swiftly darting out of the way as Volker lunged towards her, snarling like a wild beast.

Hellboy punched the vampire again, sending him flying across the room to land in a disgraceful heap. Hellboy ran over to him—and ducked as Volker seized one of the tall, heavy iron candelabras and threw it across the room.

Erica turned away from the battle and concentrated on freeing her left hand from the ropes. She quickly drew a small knife from a sheath inside one of her boots. She slashed through the ropes and rubbed her sore wrists as the ropes fell to the floor.

"Duck!" Hellboy bellowed.

Erica unquestioningly threw herself flat on the floor and heard something whiz by, narrowly missing her head.

CRASH!

She looked up as the twisted remains of a candelabra and pieces of broken candles slid down the wall and fell to the floor. Erica leapt to her feet and ran towards the pile of weaponry lying on the floor. A few meters away Hellboy and Volker were fighting to the death, knocking over candelabras and smashing windows as they hurled each other around with inhuman strength. Hellboy got up from where he had fallen and ran at the vampire—and tripped on the stairs of the dais. He crashed backwards into the black marble column Erica had been tied to. Under the impact of his weight, the stone pillar cracked and then came crashing down on top of Hellboy, breaking into huge pieces as it fell. In less than a second Hellboy was on the floor buried beneath the rubble.

Erica reached the pile of weapons and reached for the wooden stake—Volker slammed into her, knocking her backwards—they crashed to the floor with a bone jarring thud and then tumbled down the stairs, with the vampire clawing at her face and her slashing at his chest with the knife from her boot. Erica managed to get one hand free and she pushed at the floor, trying to turn over so that she wouldn't be trapped under him. The vampire copied her action, with the result that they both tumbled head over heels and came to a stop with Volker on top of her. The vampire grinned manically and grabbed her by the throat, tightening his grip into a stranglehold. Erica choked and clawed at his icy hands—and then plunged her knife into his chest at an angle so it got stuck between his ribs and collar bone. The vampire shrieked and tightened his grip on her throat—her head pounding and lungs screaming for air, Erica yanked down on the knife with her left hand, pulling Volker towards her—and pressed the palm of her right hand against his face. The cross on her ring made contact with Volker's skin just as Hellboy started to pull himself out from under the rubble of the stone column.

Volker screamed piercingly and let go of Erica's throat. Still pressing her hand to his face and pulling down on the knife, Erica sucked in a lungful of air—

"Aaaaaaaaarrrrrggghhh!"

She shrieked as the vampire dragged his long, sharp nails down her right hand and arm, trying to get her hand off his face. But she didn't let go. She pressed the cross ring against his face even harder, grabbing onto his face and pulling down on the knife to keep him from moving. Volker screamed even louder and tore at her arm with both hands. Stubborn determination was the only thing that made her hold on as his sharp nails ripped into her skin. She gritted her teeth to keep from screaming in pain—Volker switch tactics and suddenly lashed out at her eyes—Erica let go of his face and the knife and grabbed his wrists, stopping him within centimeters of clawing her eyes out.

Volker screamed again as the cross on her ring burned a cross shaped burn onto his left wrist. The vampire wrenched free of her grasp and rolled off of her, howling in pain and clawing desperately at his burned face as he stumbled to get up. He took his hand away from his face and Erica saw that there was now a second huge cross shaped burn beside his left eye. Volker glared at her, his entire face contorting into a mask of rage and his electric blue eyes glowing with a desire for revenge that bordered on insanity. Erica scrambled to get up from her vulnerable position on the floor—he kicked her in the ribs, knocking her to the floor, and then stepped on her chest, leaning his weight on her to keep her from getting up. Erica gasped for air as she was crushed between his foot and the unforgiving stone floor. She looked up in horror as Volker yanked her knife from his chest and stood over her, the knife clutched in his hand as he prepared to strike the killing blow—

—Hellboy grabbed Volker from behind with his stone hand and threw him into a wall. The knife went flying and skittered across the stone floor.

"Alright, vampy! You want hell? I'll give it to you!" Hellboy growled, pulling out his huge gun.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The gunshots echoed through the huge space. Volker dodged to the side and the bullets hit the stone wall, sending chips of black stone, masonry, and the holy water from the bullets flying through the air.

"Red, you're doing target practice when we get home!" Erica yelled as she scrambled up. She grabbed her knife and slipped it back in her boot.

"These are big bullets! I'll hit him eventually!" H.B. yelled over the thunder of gunshots as he fired at the vampire.

_He's never going to hit him at that rate, _she thought as she watched Volker easily evading the bullets. Erica ran over to the pile of weapons and grabbed the wooden stake she had brought. _How on earth am I going to get close enough to stab Volker through the heart? _She wondered, glancing over her shoulder as Volker wrenched a spear down from the wall and threw it at Hellboy. H.B. dodged it just in time. Furious, Volker grabbed the other spear—and Erica's eyes fell on the crossbow hanging nearby on the wall. _Perfect! _she thought.

"Hey, Erica! A little help here! I'm out of bullets!" Hellboy shouted.

Without thinking she pulled her handgun from her belt and tossed it to Hellboy. He caught it and soon the thunder of gunfire filled the room again—except he missed horribly every time, probably due to the fact he had to shoot with his left hand since his huge stone hand wouldn't fit her small gun. Erica ran over to the wall and took down the crossbow. She pushed the wooden stake into the slot arrows normally went into. The stake fit perfectly. _YES! _she thought as she drew back the string that would fire the weapon. It was almost to the catch when her hands, slick with her own blood, slipped and the string snapped back into place. Erica hastily wiped her hands off on her pants and drew the string back again. It slipped into the catch with a satisfying click. She turned towards Hellboy and Volker.

"Red, move!" she shouted, already aiming at the vampire.

Hellboy saw what she was doing and leapt to the side, leaving Volker out in the open. The vampire's electric blue eyes went wide as they stared at Erica aiming the wooden stake in the crossbow right at him—and suddenly, Volker vanished.

"What the hell!" yelled Hellboy.

"Volker did the same thing at the camp when he heard you coming," Erica said as she peered into the shadows of the room.

Volker suddenly slid out of the shadows and jumped up and grabbed onto one of the carved columns standing along the towering walls. The vampire scaled the vertical surface with the ease and speed of a spider and then stopped and jumped onto the windowsill of a stained glass window. Hellboy and Erica ran over and stopped at the base of the wall. Hellboy aimed Erica's gun at the vampire and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

"Damn," Hellboy cursed, "No bullets left." The red demon glared up at the vampire who was more than ten feet out of his reach.

Volker looked down at them and brushed the long strands of his black hair out of his face. He winced as his long nails dragged across the two cross shaped burns on his face. He straightened his clothes a little and tried to compose himself. It didn't help, he still looked extremely disheveled and furiously insane. He smiled mockingly at them.

"I'll wipe that grin off your face!" Erica threatened. She aimed the crossbow at his heart and pulled the trigger.

The smile vanished from Volker's face as he threw himself flat on the windowsill. The wooden stake ripped through the edge of his cape and then shattered the stained glass window as it smashed through it. Shards of colored glass went flying in all directions and Erica and Hellboy had to duck as the sharp pieces rained down on them.

"_Scheiße!_" Erica muttered, furious at herself for missing.

The vampire stood up and stared uneasily at the broken window, clearly shaken by how close it had been. He turned around and looked down at them.

"So good of you to provide an exit for me, Fräulein." Volker said, bowing.

Hellboy growled in irritation and reached for a lance hanging on the wall. The vampire quickly stepped through the window and climbed sideways along the wall so he could no longer be seen through the window.

"Aw crap," Hellboy cursed.

Erica knew what he meant. She was the only one who could climb up to the window like Volker had, but she couldn't climb along the outside of the castle too: it was a sheer drop with nothing for her to hold onto. That meant she and Hellboy had to find another way outside. _But by the time we do that it'll be too late. Volker will be gone,_ she thought.

Suddenly Volker called through the shattered window to them, his voice full of danger and foreboding. "Fräulein, I vould be careful if I vere you. The dead and the undead travel fast, and sometimes you'll find that things you thought long dead are very much alive. Consider this a varning."

Volker fell silent and there was the barely audible sound of sharp nails dragging across stone as the vampire climbed along the outside of the castle. The silence seemed to stretch out into eternity as Hellboy and Erica stood, waiting. Nothing happened. Then there was a sharp, distant scream. Erica winced realizing it was probably one of the agents.

"Did he get away?" Hellboy asked gruffly.

Erica closed her eyes for a moment and concentrated. A vision of the vampire fleeing north into the night came into her mind's eye. "Ja, he got away."

"Crap. I was hopin' to get here in time to kill him."

"Speaking of which, where the _Hell_ were you? You cut that a little close!" Erica exclaimed, "If you'd been a few seconds later I would have been _dead!_"

"Hello and nice to see you too," Hellboy replied with a smile, "Did you have a nice chat with vampy?"

"A chat!" Erica exclaimed indignantly, "A _chat_? He wanted to drink my _blood_! He wanted to _kill_ me! And for future reference, I _refuse_ to be bait for the next monster we run into!"

Hellboy chuckled and brushed the broken glass and stone dust off his trench coat as Erica picked up her blades and put them back in their sheaths. She was very pleased to see that both of her baton swords were there. Even though the ones she had brought with her were only copies of her originals that were back at the BPRD, she didn't want to lose them. Erica gathered up the rest of her equipment and carefully put it back in her pockets.

"Oh, here," said Hellboy, handing her handgun to her, "And if you want my opinion, I think you were pretty good at bein' bait. You have to admit it wasn't borin'."

"Yeah, it's hard to be bored when a vampire is breathing down your neck and you're waiting for backup."

"Hey, it's a big place, it's a lot to go through to find one person." Hellboy said defensively, "And it didn't help that your locator belt and radio were off. And as if you have any right to scold me." Red muttered.

"Ja, I do," she said, slipping a little into German, "I'm twenty two years older than you. Anyways, thanks for showing up."

"You're welcome." He replied, smiling.

"Hey, Red? Everything okay?" Agent Clay's voice crackled over Hellboy's radio transmitter.

"Erica's safe. Vampy got away. We'll regroup in front of the castle." Hellboy said.

With that they quickly left the room and headed through the castle toward the front doors.

XXXXX

By the time Erica and Hellboy found their way out, the other agents had gathered around the trucks. A few portable work lights had been set up to provide some light, and it was so cold that a white fog drifted from everyone's mouth and nose as they breathed.

"Ow!" exclaimed Agent Moss as Abe, still wrapped up in blankets and resembling the contents of a linen closet and dresser on legs, put ice on the bump on the back of the Agent's skull.

"What happened to you?" asked Erica, seeing Agent Moss.

The other agents spun around to face her and Hellboy. Abe looked over at them and blinked.

"What happened to you two, might I ask?" Abe said, taking in the cuts on Erica's face and the blood running down her arm, as well as the glass imbedded in Hellboy's trench coat.

"The usual." grunted Hellboy.

"Ah." Abe replied, nodding sagely. He turned to Erica and took in her battered appearance. "I take it did not go well between you and your old friend."

"You can say that again," she said, attempting a smile. "I did know the vampire after all. His name is Volker Maynard, and he was after me specifically. That's why he was killing the villagers, to lure us—_me_—here."

"Why?" asked Clay.

"Two reasons. One, he wanted to avenge the deaths of a few of his vampire friends that I'm responsible for killing," she paused and took a deep breath before continuing. "Two, he said the Thule Occult Society had offered him a reward in return for delivering me to them alive."

There was silence for a moment, until Hellboy spoke.

"Uh, that's not good." he said, making what was probably the understatement of the year.

"No, it isn't. However, Volker decided that he was more interested in killing me than delivering me to the Thule Society. Fortunately Hellboy showed up at the last possible second and kicked some vampire butt. Volker ran off, though we think he attacked someone before heading north."

"Yeah, he attacked me." Agent Moss piped up, "Twice in one day! At least it's nothing more serious than a blow to the head."

"So, Red, are we going after it?" one of the Agents said.

Hellboy thought for a moment. "Erica, where's he headed?"

She closed her eyes for a moment and concentrated. A mental image of the future popped into her head of the vampire passing a sign that translated roughly as: Welcome to Norway.

"Norway." Erica said, a little puzzled about why Volker was going there. _I suppose it's entirely possible that the remaining members of the Thule Society could be hiding out there, _she thought.

"Red, while you were gone we received a message from Professor Broom," Abe said, "He wants us to return as soon as possible. There's a lot of werewolf sightings being reported."

"Great," muttered Erica.

"Then let's head home." Hellboy announced.

"What?" asked one of the agents.

"If vampy was only after Erica he'll be leaving this village alone."

"But he could come back and keep killing people to try to lure us here again." Agent Clay pointed out.

"I doubt it," Erica said, "I know Volker. He wouldn't reuse a plan that had failed to work in the past." She closed her eyes for a moment and concentrated on the vampire's future. Shadows danced across the walls of a room—Volker was talking to a man—she couldn't see the man's face—the man stabbed the vampire with a wooden stake— Erica opened her eyes and grimaced a little at what she had seen. "Besides, we won't have to worry about Volker," she said, "He's going to be killed. With a wooden stake through his heart."

"By who? When?" asked Clay.

"I can't see who. But it's going to be very soon. And in Norway."

"That settles it. Pack it up and let's hit the road. I'm hungry, anyway." Hellboy said decisively. He stomped away towards one of the trucks, flicking his lighter as he tried to light a cigar. The flame danced eerily in the darkness.

Abe turned to Erica and handed her some bandages from the first aid kit sitting next to him. "Are you alright?" he asked, eyeing the blood dripping down her arm and hand.

"Ja. No permanent damage." she answered, "Just some deep scratches. Volker didn't like it when I pressed my ring against his face." She held her hand up so the light fell on the cross on her ring.

"Wrap up your arm so the bleeding stops," Abe said, "I'll look at your injuries when we get back to the plane."

"What about the villagers?"

"We'll stop in the village and you and I can tell the people that Volker is gone. I'll put my disguise on while we get there." He paused and then added as an after thought: "Maybe it'll keep me warmer."

Erica laughed. "Abe, if you had anymore clothes or blankets on, you wouldn't be able to move. You'd be a fishy marshmallow-man."

The fish-man considered her statement and nodded. "True enough. I'm just waiting until we get a mission in the tropics and you'll be complaining about how hot and wet it is. You know what they say: what goes around comes around."

XXXXX

It was two in the morning by the time the three trucks had bumped all the way down the rock covered dirt road and arrived at the village. Abe, minus all of his blankets and now clad in his black hat, scarf, hat, sunglasses, and long coat was sitting in the passenger's seat of one of the trucks. He overheard Hellboy mentally wishing for a big hot cup of coffee and doughnuts. Abe smiled. _Big red monkey, _Abe thought affectionately as he climbed out of the truck and stood shivering in the darkness.

Erica joined him, yawning. "We're here already? I was just starting to doze off in the truck."

"You better wake up and stay alert. The villagers are a little…odd. My last visit here was quite exasperating. And the undertaker was highly annoying."

Erica laughed. Clearly she found the tone in his voice amusing.

"I'll have to meet him. It isn't very often that someone can get on your nerves." Erica said, a smile on her face.

"You don't want to meet him," Abe assured her, "The villagers are irritating enough. Oh, and a word of advice, keep an eye on your pockets."

"What?" she asked, confused.

SLAM!

The door of one of the houses slammed and Abe looked up to see that the villagers were standing on their porches, peering curiously through the darkness at the BPRD's trucks. Most of the villagers came pouring out of the brightly lit tavern where it appeared they had been having a party. A large banner was stretched across the tavern and the words 'Bets taken tonight on how long the foreigners live' had been hastily and crudely painted across it.

Two men stepped out of the crowd of people around the trucks and came up to Abe and Erica. "Did any of you die?" the tallest man asked in a tone that dared them to say no. Erica, however, didn't care what the man wanted.

"No." she answered, and scowled right back at him, daring him to make something of it.

The tall man backed down and turned sheepishly to his shorter companion.

"Hah! Told you! You lose! Now pay up!" the shorter man demanded. The taller man grumbled but handed over a few coins.

"Oh, I see you're back!" said a voice.

Abe mentally groaned as he realized who the voice belonged to.

The tall, skeletal undertaker materialized out of the crowd and came over to Abe. The wilted rose in his buttonhole was looking even deader than it had that afternoon.

"Any deaths?" the undertaker asked, obviously hopeful.

"No." Abe answered, hoping the man would go away.

The undertaker looked severely disappointed. "Oh. Well, it's good to know that you all survived," the undertaker replied, though it was obvious he didn't mean it.

"Yes, very lucky considering the circumstances," Erica said, eyeing the undertaker as if he were insane.

The undertaker jerked as if she had startled him and looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. "Hello. I don't remember seeing you before." he said. He smiled crookedly and tipped his beat up top hat to her in a gesture of respect.

Erica nodded curtly and was about to turn away when—

"And the Missus will certainly be wanting these for her injuries!" the undertaker said, shoving a handful of moldy and stained bandages at Abe and Erica.

"No. And we're not married." Erica said, eyeing the bandages with disgust.

Abe picked up on the undertaker's thoughts and blushed beneath his disguise. _Oh no, here it comes, _Abe thought.

"Would you like to get married? I do weddings!"

Erica grinned sweetly at the skeletal man, the expression on her face like poisoned honey. _That can't mean anything good, _Abe thought, deciding to intervene at once.

"As fond as I am of my dear friend, no, we would _not_ like to get married." Abe said firmly.

"Are you sure? I can make all the arrangements! We'll need a cake, and have to round up some guests—"

"Nein." Erica said.

"What?" the undertaker asked, looking confused.

"I said _no_! I thought that if you didn't understand English that German might get through your thick skull! Now, if you would be quiet for a minute, we could tell you why we're back!"

"Ah, say no more! You remembered you forgot to pre-order coffins and funeral services before you left so you turned around and—"

"Shut up! The vampire is _gone_!" Erica yelled.

A hush fell over the crowd and the undertaker was actually struck silent for a moment. Abe waited for a moment, expecting someone to look happy. But the villagers simply stood there, shocked and silent.

"Well, uh, no need for any display of gratitude for risking our lives for you. We're leaving." Erica finally announced.

As if her words had released some spell, cheering suddenly broke out as the all the villagers started celebrating in the streets. Well, almost all of the villagers. The undertaker looked grief-stricken and seemed to slump a little in a bizarre parody of the wilted rose in his button hole.

"Oh no!" the undertaker lamented, his voice barely audible over the ruckus of celebration, "There goes _that_ business opportunity! Now what am I going to do with all the extra coffins I ordered? And the garlic? And crucifixes? And the…?"

Abe saw Erica looking at him questioningly. He could tell she had overheard the undertaker as well. Abe shrugged. _He's just strange, _he thought at her.

"Ja," she agreed, "Now let's go home. It's even stranger, but at least I'm used to it."

XXXXX

_A Private Airplane Belonging to the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense_

_Just Before Dawn_

Erica sat at a table, listening to the steady hum of the plane's engines. The small windows in the wall were pitch black, nothing could be seen outside except the impenetrable night stretching on forever. Erica's trench coat lay abandoned over the back of her chair and her right arm was stretched out on the table. Abe, thankful to be out of the cold and now wearing his normal wetsuit and respirator, was inspecting the deep scratches in her skin. Hellboy sat nearby, downing a huge mug of coffee in a vain attempt to stay alert and awake. He was also noisily munching on a box of two-dozen doughnuts.

"I'll be glad when October is over and we can all get some sleep," Hellboy said, breaking the silence.

"You should have slept on the way over like I—OW! Abe!" Erica yelped.

"Sorry," Abe said apologetically, "All I did was put rubbing alcohol on your scratches."

"Warn me next time, please." she replied, gritting her teeth as Abe continued cleaning her cuts.

"Skinned knuckles and wrists, a bump on your head, scratches on your face and arm, and bruises on your neck. Volker must have been very angry with you." Abe observed.

Erica shrugged and looked down, picking at the dried blood stuck to her pants leg where she had wiped off the blood on her hands. "It's nothing compared to what could have happened." she replied.

Abe gazed at her, the expression in his large black eyes unfathomable. "Erica, when we get back you know you're going to have to tell Professor Broom that the Thule Society was involved in this," he said gently. He could see through Erica's outward act and knew that she was a little more shaken by the event than she let on.

"Yes, I know. But honestly, I'm not surprised to hear that they're still after me. Or that I have a price on my head. "

The Thule Occult Society had been silent for years, but she knew that at least two members still survived: Ilsa Haupstein and Karl Kroenen. She also knew that they would pursue her to the ends of the earth and down to hell and back again to kill her.

She sighed. It seemed that no matter what side she was on, the opposing side always wanted to kill her. _Well, at least it makes for an interesting—if very active—life,_ she thought.

"I know you're not surprised," said Abe, "But this was a warning. Something has happened to cause the Thule Society to pursue you for the first time in sixty years. They may be gathering strength."

Erica shuddered. Abe's words reminded her of the warning Volker had given her. It certainly did imply that the Thule Society, its members, or something or someone associated with them—long thought dead—was coming back. _Could that mean Kroenen?_ She wondered. Volker _had_ said something about being stabbed twice in one week with a baton sword. And since she had only stabbed him once, and she and Kroenen were the only ones she knew of that had baton swords, that seemed to imply that Kroenen had stabbed Volker the first time.

A chilling thought stuck her. _Or does the warning mean Rasputin is coming back?_ She thought. Erica felt physically sick at the idea, and not only because his return meant she would have to fight for her life again. It would also mean that he would try to release the Seven Gods of Chaos and burn both the earth and the heavens.

All in all, she couldn't help but think this was just the beginning of trouble.

Author's Notes: Hehe, another cliffie! Well, sort of. And don't worry, I will explain _all_ _about_ what happens to Volker. Kroenen and Ilsa will make a star appearance in chapter four. In fact, they have the entire bloody thing to themselves! Please review!


	4. All Consuming Obsession

**Chapter 4: All Consuming Obsession**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Volker Maynard the vampire, and the plot that isn't from the movie is mine.

Author's Notes: Thanks for the reviews everyone! And I sincerely apologize for taking so long to post this chapter, I was the head of the costume department for my high school's musical Once Upon A Mattress, and finding or sewing all the costumes for a cast of about twenty people consumed almost all of my writing time. The play was last weekend, so I'll have more time soon, which means the next chapter will be up much sooner than this one was. Anywhoo, here is the long awaited chapter devoted entirely to Kroenen and Ilsa. As might be expected with such characters, there's a bit of mild language and violence. Here are the German to English translations: 'Ja' is yes, 'Nein' is no, 'Guten abend' is good evening, and "Auf wiedersehen' is good bye. Enjoy the chapter!

**iluvrocknroll: **Yeah, poor Erica with Volker going for her throat. And Agent Moss does seem to be screaming 'kill me', doesn't he? Thanks for reviewing!

**The Common Wind Deity:** I put lots of detail in here for you! I know exactly how you feel, I like to be able to picture things too. And the next chapter is also about Kroenen and Ilsa, since I thought they deserved some more attention.

**amyltrer:** Hmm, _someone's_ good at paying attention to my foreshadowing! Thanks for the idea, I'm using it in the next chapter, which is also only about Kroenen and Ilsa.

**CicadaS/Psycho Llama:** Yeah, Erica's love life needs some work. I think that might be mentioned in chapter six, hint hint. And I guess I can see Volker being hot, as long as he wasn't trying to kill me. I liked your vampire pun, it made me laugh!

**Gestalt:** Sorry, no Sammaels in this chapter, but they're coming up soon-ish, believe me! Yay! You caught on to my foreshadowing too! Here comes the baddies!

"Holding anger is a poison. It eats you from inside. We think that hating is a weapon that attacks the person who harmed us. But hatred is a curved blade. And the harms we do, we do to ourselves."—Mitch Albom

_October, Present Day_

_A Castle in Norway_

_Night_

The study and extensive library was dark, the only light came from the roaring fire in the fireplace. The fire cast dancing shadows over the bookshelves that covered the walls from floor to ceiling. The books were crowded together but meticulously organized to their owner's preference. Ancient books and scrolls on the Occult took up most of the shelves, some of them written in secret or long dead languages. Medical texts with titles in English and German took up the rest of the shelves, and large, disgustingly detailed diagrams of the human body were tacked to the walls in the small spaces between the bookcases.

Victorian era furniture made from dark wood was scattered around the center of the room: a desk, a few chairs, and a table. Every horizontal surface in the room was cluttered with piles of books, papers, burned out candles; even a few chairs and the red rugs on the stone floor were barely visible under the haphazard avalanche of books and scrolls lying on top of them. Scattered among the typical library objects were several things that shattered the bookish atmosphere and made the room extremely disturbing. Here and there metal gleamed eerily in the firelight: half disassembled clocks, their gears and inner workings removed with surgical precision and left in piles beside the systematically gutted clocks. Small and unidentifiable parts of machinery lay in similar piles, awaiting the time when they would be needed to make repairs. A clock sat on the mantelpiece, ticking away despite the fact that its housing had been removed, exposing all of its working parts. Tools and a variety of medical equipment with lethally sharp edges lay on the desk beside a manically grinning human skull. Next to the skull was a row of strange metal masks, each of them a cruelly twisted man-made reflection of nature. A large Nazi and Thule Society flag hung from the top of a nearby bookshelf, almost obscuring the entire bookshelf as the length of black cloth draped down to touch the floor.

An opera by Wagner was playing on an ancient phonograph whose metal parts gleamed with care in the flickering firelight. Dr. Karl Kroenen was dressed in his skin tight black bodysuit, knee high black boots, and his metal and leather chest plate that resembled a distorted parody of the human ribcage. The ornate designs and ceaselessly rotating gears on the chest plate glimmered, but the glass 'eyes' of his black metal mask were dark. The clockwork assassin sat hunched over in a chair at his desk, his mechanical left hand lying on the desk in front of him—he had detached it from his wrist in order to improve its mechanisms. He bent over the mechanical hand and adjusted a few gears with the tool he held in his gloved right hand. The fingers of the mechanical hand twitched in response, the metal fingertips tapping gently against the wooden surface of the desk. In the background the opera music built up to a crescendo and the opera singer held the note for an unbearably long and beautiful length of time before her voice began to grow faint. The music gradually faded away as the song came to an end, finally leaving the room in silence except for the gentle and disquieting ticking of Kroenen's clockwork heart.

_Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…_

SNAP!

The burning logs in the fireplace shifted and crackled loudly, sending a cloud of red sparks up the chimney with the smoke. The sound broke Karl Kroenen's concentration, and slightly irritated at the distraction, he looked up from his work and glared at the fireplace. As he did so he happened to catch a glimpse of the mountains of books and papers his study was currently swamped in. Kroenen eyed the mess with distaste. He was normally obsessive compulsive about his work area and belongings: everything was _always_ in its place and it was _always _put away neatly—well, almost always. Right now was an exception, since he and Ilsa had been doing a lot of research using the books they had gotten from Volker Maynard. And even though Ilsa was primarily responsible for the mess of books and papers, he knew _he_ was the one who was going to have to clean it up.

The clockwork assassin sighed and glanced down again at his work, but he paused and reflexively stole a sidelong glance at a framed black and white photograph on his desk. The photograph was a little faded and had a yellow tinge from age, and the top left corner had a slight crease in it where it had somehow gotten folded over and he had straightened it out as best he could. There were a few tiny rips around the edges of the photograph, each carefully repaired with tape that he had replaced over the years more times than he cared to count. But he didn't care how ragged it looked, his attention was focused on the image, on the three people standing together, all dressed in their black SS uniforms.

It was a photograph of The Three, the name the Allied soldiers had given to himself, Erica Schwarz, and Ilsa Haupstien. All three of them were standing in the garden of the mansion where they had lived during WWII. He was standing on the left, beside Erica, and Ilsa was standing on Erica's other side. All of them were in full Nazi uniform, but there was a casual air to the picture: Erica and Ilsa were smiling and laughing, and Erica had taken off her hat and let her hair down. There was a rose behind her ear. The entire scene was perfect.

Despite the perfection, Kroenen scowled. The smile on Erica's face seemed to be purposefully mocking him. _Liar. Traitor, _he thought bitterly. Sixty years ago, during the last few days they had been together, she had done nothing but lie to him, Ilsa, and Grigory. She had lied to _him,_ over and over and _over_ again, and continued to do so even when they both knew she was lying—lying in order to hide that she had betrayed them, the Thule Occult Society, and the Nazis. And it had worked, no one had found out until the end. Kroenen himself hadn't seen it coming until it had been too late to stop it and everything was falling apart around him as he and Erica were fighting to the death.

Only, _nearly_ to the death was more appropriate.

_I should have killed her when I had the chance, _he thought, mentally berating himself for his weakness, _I should have killed her when I had wounded her and beaten her into exhaustion! I should have spilled every last drop of her blood—should have sacrificed her to the Ogdru Jahad! But _no_! I, Hitler's Top Assassin, couldn't bring myself to kill her! _Damn_ her _and_ my emotions!_

He glared daggers at the young woman in the photograph—a woman he had once nicknamed his Angel of Death for her unwavering loyalty to him. _So much for loyalty and friendship!_ Kroenen thought.

The assassin picked up the framed photograph and ran a gloved finger down the glass that separated him from, what was to him, a picturesque scene. _I wish I could go through the glass so I could live there again, _he thought. To anyone else the battered photograph would have been a reminder of what a vile period in history WWII had been, but to him it was both a treasure and a curse: Besides Ilsa it was all he had left to remind him of how perfect everything had been Before.

_Before Erica betrayed us, _he thought bitterly, _Before she betrayed _me_—her teacher and friend! And all for nothing but a religion we had already convinced her to reject and forget about—for a religion whose principals she had broken over and over again—for a Christian ideal! How frustratingly typical. _Damn_ her!_

It was torture to think about what could have been: The Ogdru Jahad would have escaped their crystal prison and scoured the earth with a raging fire, killing the Nazis' enemies and all others unworthy of existence. The world would have ended, burnt to a cinder by the hellish flames, and a new, perfect world would have risen from the ashes like a phoenix—a world where those loyal to the Seven Gods of Chaos could have lived in paradise. He and Ilsa and Erica could have been happy forever. But all of that had been destroyed because Erica had sent a tip-off letter to the Allied Forces—oh yes, he had since found out about that letter!—and it had been answered by a meddling Professor who specialized in the paranormal, and a ragtag group of soldiers from the Allied Forces.

_I don't understand why she wanted to get in the way of perfection, _Kroenen thought as he put the picture down on his desk. He leaned back in his chair and gazed blindly at the flickering flames in the fireplace. _She's German, she became a Nazi. __She willingly went along with Project Ragnarok for years, and then everything changed in the space of a few days._

A small nagging doubt began gnawing voraciously at his insides as the tiny, squashed emotional part of him struggled to the surface. _Was it my fault?_ He wondered, _Did I do something wrong? Am _I _the reason she betrayed us? _He realized what he was doing and violently suppressed his emotions—the same emotions, the same _weakness_ that had stopped him from spilling every drop of blood in Erica's body. He squished his doubts into a mental corner and then blocked them out completely. Once his emotions had been restrained again he considered how ridiculous his thoughts had been. _My fault? Hah! It was_ entirely _her fault! _She_ made the decision to become a traitor, _she_ destroyed the Nazis only chance to win the war and crush their enemies into the dust! Because of her, because of_ one person_, the entire world changed._

But that belonged to the history books.

Kroenen's lidless blue eyes flicked over to the photograph sitting on his desk. The flames in the fireplace were reflected on the polished surface of the glass. He scowled at the ghostly reflection of flames as they reminded him about what had happened to the place he, Ilsa, Erica, and Grigory had called home. At the end of WWII the Allied Forces had invaded Germany and sent a group of soldiers to search the mansion for The Three. Of course the place had been empty: he and Ilsa had secretly fled to Norway after the failure of Project Ragnarok, and Erica had gone to America with Professor Bruttenholm. But despite the fact that the mansion had been empty, less then half of the soldiers had made it out of the building alive. Those that had died were all victims of the traps, pitfalls, and the dangerously magical rooms beneath the mansion. Kroenen thought it was fitting that his traps had been his last blow to the enemy that had destroyed the Nazis and the hope of a perfect Germany.

The surviving Allied soldiers had been so infuriated at their failure to find The Three and so afraid of the darkness and evil that consumed the building that they had set fire to the mansion. The huge, elaborate building had burned for days, destroying Kroenen's library and the valuable books within it that would have helped to bring Grigory Rasputin back from the dead within a year or two. Even after the initial blaze was gone the foundations had continued to smolder for the next week, and thick smoke had poured out from the mansion's maze of underground rooms. Quite fittingly, the soldiers from the Allied Forces had nicknamed the place Hell's Mouth and then proceeded to slowly forget about The Three—most of them assumed The Three had simply been rumors or propaganda invented by the Germans to frighten their enemies.

_They couldn't have been more wrong. But it's just as well that we've been forgotten. It will be much easier for Ilsa and I to go unnoticed in public when we leave for Moldavia. Though it is interesting that Professor Bruttenholm neglected to inform the Allied Forces that he had found Erica Schwarz. I suppose he didn't want them to know that he asked her to work for him, _Kroenen thought cynically, _How clever of him. Because of his actions there's no solid evidence that she ever existed. She's not in the history books, she's not even mentioned as a rumor. She just disappeared. Just like us. But Professor __Bruttenholm can't hide her from me forever. There isn't a place on Earth, in Heaven, or in the depths of Hell where she can hide from me!_

And he could actually back up that statement.

Because he _had_ found her.

While he and Ilsa had been waiting for WWII to end there really hadn't been a lot to do at the castle. True, they had been building up a new library and doing research into the matter of how to resurrect Grigory Rasputin, and when they hit a dead end or a major mental block he had his clocks to tinker with or his pet project of making improvements to himself. However, in between those activities he had made it his business to find out _exactly_ what had happened to Erica Schwarz. In fact, it had soon turned into a point of all consuming obsession.

Kroenen knew he was _still_ obsessing over her—just as he had realized he was obsessing over her then. But just like then, he still didn't care. In 1944 all he had cared about was finding out if she had lived, and if she had, he had desperately wanted to find her and get revenge for her treachery. At the beginning, only a few days after the failure of Project Ragnarok, he hadn't known if Erica had survived October 9, 1944—she could have died from her wounds or been killed by the soldiers from the Allied Forces. A few weeks later he had caught and 'interrogated' a spy from America that had been snooping around outside the castle. Before the man died, he told Kroenen that Erica was alive and that she was in America working for Professor Bruttenholm, one of the men Kroenen remembered shooting in the knee on October 9th. As soon as Kroenen knew what country she was in, it had only been a matter of narrowing down her location. This had initially proved to be more difficult than he had expected, but eventually reports trickled in, sometimes trickling from the mouths of people along with their blood as he sought madly to locate Erica. In the end he had learned more from paranormal creatures than humans.

_I should have expected that,_ he thought, looking back on the past, _The human race believed Erica had never existed, but since she was working for Professor Bruttenholm, it only makes sense that monsters and ghosts would constantly run into her. _

A surge of triumph filled him as he recalled his elation at the exact moment when he had put the pieces together and realized where Erica was hiding: The BPRD, or The Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense, located in Newark, N. J.

_The Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense, _he thought darkly, _Quite a fitting home for her since she betrayed the Thule Occult Society. No doubt she's put her inside knowledge to good use. I'll be sure to 'interrogate' her about the BPRD and their activities when I see her again._

He grinned liplessly at that thought, imagining what her tortured face would look like. He hadn't seen his Angel of Death for sixty years and was looking forward to meeting her again—preferably somewhere where his revenge wouldn't be interrupted. Fortunately Grigory Rasputin had granted Erica the gift of immortality and eternal youth only minutes before she made her betrayal known to everyone, which meant that she would be easy to recognize: she would look exactly the same as she had six decades ago.

_Well, she'll look almost the same, _he thought, correcting himself as he remembered the "T" he had cut into her left cheek. And there was sure to be a huge scar on her left shoulder where, in his damned moment of weakness, he had turned his blade at the last second to avoid stabbing her in the heart. Behind his mask Kroenen's lipless mouth twisted into a grotesque shadow of a grimace at the unpleasant memory of that dark, rainy night and his failure to kill Erica. And his failure to grab the grenade that had exploded and permanently ended Project Ragnarok. Kroenen mentally winced, knowing there was going to be Hell to pay the first chance Grigory or the Ogdru Jahad got around to punishing him for his moment of emotional weakness and his failure to grab the grenade—both of which had cost them everything. The entirety of the Nazi's and Thule Society's destiny had hinged upon that grenade—and he had failed, just as he had failed to kill Erica, just as he had failed to realize she had betrayed them. If it wasn't for Erica, he would have grabbed the grenade and the Nazis would have won the war. As it was, the threat of punishment hovered over Kroenen's head constantly. It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop—for _sixty years_.

_The actual punishment probably won't be as bad as waiting for it,_ he reflected, _And even if it is, at least I know I'll get to 'punish' Erica for her treachery by sacrificing her to the Ogdru Jahad. It's my duty as the Head of the Thule Society._ The shadow of a grim, satisfied smile drifted across his mutilated and scarred features. _I will have my revenge soon,_ he thought. A few nights ago, in the process of finishing up their research on how to resurrect Grigory, he and Ilsa had been in Transylvania, wandering around inside a castle trying to locate a library of books on the Occult—some of which had to do with resurrecting the dead. Only, the castle hadn't been as abandoned as they had thought, and they had stumbled over someone Ilsa knew from WWII, a man—if you could call him a man—by the name of Volker Maynard. Kroenen could see that night's events replaying inside his head, the images flickering in front of his mind's eye…

It was a dark night in Transylvania. The night sky was overcast and the thick cloud cover obscured the stars and moon. But that was fine, Kroenen was used to walking in the darkness with very little light to see by. His boots made no sound against the stone floor as he walked through the corridors of the abandoned castle. Ilsa followed behind him carrying a lantern that did next to nothing to dispel the darkness. However, it was just enough light to allow her to reference the papers she was carrying: a set of ancient blueprints of the castle that she had found lying on a table near the entrance of the castle.

"The library should be just through there." Ilsa said, pointing to one of the doors.

Kroenen nodded and tried the handle. As he had expected, the door was locked. He swiftly took out one of the tools from the small satchel he was carrying and knelt at the base of the door. He inserted the strange looking piece of metal into the lock and Ilsa held the lantern close to the door so he could see what he was doing as he tried to unlock the door. Actually, _pretending_ to be trying to unlock it was a more accurate description, he could have had the door open in a second if he had wanted. Instead he worked slowly and quietly, putting his concentration into what was going on around him. He knew _somethin_g was there, he could feel it watching him—he just didn't know what it was. Whatever the creature was, it was very, _very_ quiet.

For a while the silence of the stone hall was only disturbed only by the slight rasp of his breathing and the ticking of his clockwork heart, and the click of metal on metal as he messed about inside the lock. He glanced at Ilsa, who had obviously caught on that something was wrong. He nodded ever so slightly and then beckoned her closer on the pretense of having her hold the lantern closer to him. She set down the blueprints and then knelt down beside him and leaned towards him as she brought the lantern closer.

"Someone else is here," he whispered in her ear, "They've been following us for a while."

Ilsa's expression was unreadable, but her cold blue eyes glittered sinisterly in the light thrown by the lantern. "Let's surprise them before they surprise us." she suggested, her red lips twisting into a wicked smile as she spoke.

"Ja. As soon as I get the door open find somewhere inside to hide."

Ilsa nodded. Kroenen twisted the tool in his hand and there was a soft click as the lock opened. He quickly put his tool away and threw the strap of the satchel over one shoulder. Ilsa picked up the blue prints and stowed them away in her own backpack. Kroenen pushed the door open and then stood to the side and gestured at the opening.

"Ladies first," he said, making a half bow.

Ilsa laughed derisively. It was a sharp, harsh sound. "You can't possibly mean me, Karl." she said, even as she walked through the doorway.

Kroenen followed her, winding up his heart as he went. The gears and springs grated together and created a scratchy mechanical noise that echoed in the huge, round shaped library they had just entered. A sigh of contentment escaped his lipless mouth as the clockwork inside him sped up, ready for the unnaturally quick and ruthless movements that were part of his unique fighting style. A moment later he gracefully slid into the shadows of the room and slipped behind the door, silently drawing one of his baton swords as he went. From his position he watched as Ilsa set the lantern on a desk and then ducked behind an armchair that was close to the door. She pulled a small revolver from her belt and held it at the ready.

Everything was silent as they waited breathlessly for whatever it was to take the bait. The small flame in the lantern flickered in a draft of cold air and then burned strongly. Kroenen didn't fail to notice the change and peered out into the hallway through the crack of space between the open door and its hinges. As he watched, a man-like shape darker than the other shadows started towards the door. _A man? Fool, _Kroenen thought, _This will be easy._ He raised his baton sword and prepared to strike the killing blow. Every muscle in his body was tensed for action and ready to spring.

The dark shape came closer and then paused a moment at the door, cocking its head slightly to the side as if listening. Then it started forward again and the light from the lantern finally chased away the concealing shadows. A pale faced man dressed in a black frock coat and pants slipped through the doorway, his cape billowing slightly as he moved. He walked so carefully that every footfall was perfectly silent. The man entered the library and slowly began to edge past the open door—

—like an attacking panther Kroenen suddenly whipped around the door and leapt into the man's path. His arm thrust the blade of the baton sword into the man's chest so hard that the pointed end of the blade came out through the man's back. The crunch of bone and the tearing of muscle translated itself into vibrations that traveled up the length of the blade and into Kroenen's hands as he held onto the sword. The man arched his back in agony and a gurgling shriek escaped from his lips as his pale, spider like fingers clawed at the air. Behind his mask Kroenen's skull-like grin grew wider as he attempted a triumphant, if lipless, smile. The man's cry of pain faded and died. Kroenen knew from his experience as an assassin what would happened next: the man would fall to the floor, dead_. It's the same pattern every time,_ he thought, watching the man's pain distorted face. _He'll go limp at any moment_.

Suddenly the man _stood up straight_ and _smiled_.

_Impossible!_ Kroenen thought. His lidless eyes darted to where his baton sword protruded from the man's chest. No blood spurted from around the blade or dribbled slowly down the man's chest. There was no sound of the guttural gasps for air that one would expect to come from someone with a punctured lung. No blood bubbled from the man's nose or lips. And most importantly, the man wasn't _dead_.

With the baton sword still firmly embedded in his torso, the man calmly tucked a few loose strands of his long black hair behind his ear and then straightened the black ribbon tied around his ponytail. Kroenen simply stared, trying to figure out what sort of creature was currently impaled on his baton sword.

"Guten abend, Karl Kroenen," the man said in a voice with a strong German accent. He casually looked down at the baton sword protruding from his chest, which Kroenen was still holding onto. He looked up again and his electric blue eyes seemed to be glowing in the dim light. "Is this how you greet your allies now?" the man asked, "I must admit, it's a pleasure to meet you. I recognize you from a picture I saw a long time ago. It's so nice to finally run into you, though not so nice to run into your sword." He glanced down at the blade that Kroenen was still holding onto. "Are you going to pull this thing out yourself or do I have to do it?" the man asked.

Kroenen didn't move. The man—if that was what he really was—sighed and slowly took a few steps backwards so the baton sword slid out of his torso. The blade gleamed in the light, it was perfectly clean and there was no sign that it had been embedded in the man's chest a moment before. Kroenen watched as the pale man straightened his elegant black frock coat.

"Volker?" Ilsa asked, standing up from behind the armchair, "Volker Maynard the vampire?"

The man made an overly elegant bow in her direction. "Ilsa Haupstien! _So_ good to see you again!" He tried to reach for her hand but she swiftly moved it behind her back and took a few steps backwards.

"You know each other?" Kroenen asked dubiously, looking from Ilsa to Volker. If the man was a vampire that explained why stabbing him in the chest hadn't killed him. _But how does he know Ilsa? _Kroenen wondered,_ He can't be another of her former lovers from before she met Grigory, can he?_ He thought about that for a moment and decided that it was actually a good possibility.

"We know each other," Ilsa said in a tone of voice that made it obvious to Kroenen that she disliked Volker, "Erica and I met him one time—"

"And ve had such a good time, didn't ve, discussing vhat you vould give me in return for killing that pompous official from the Allied Forces? He vas giving the Thule Society and the Nazis _so_ much trouble." The vampire paused and looked at Ilsa eagerly. He slowly moved closer towards her, "A pity Erica vas so able to resist me. If it vasn't for her…Ilsa…you vere quite taken with me…as vas Erica at the time, though she hid it better…" He started to reach out for her, but Ilsa quickly retreated around the armchair so it was between them. Volker ignored the fact that she clearly wanted nothing to do with him and simply walked around the chair towards her.

"Ja, well, Grigory would hardly have been happy if I returned to him as a vampire." Ilsa replied as she retreated to Kroenen's side. "Damn vampire magnetism," she muttered, just loud enough so Kroenen could hear her.

Seeing that Ilsa was standing beside Kroenen, Volker gave up on getting closer to her and stayed where he was, looking slightly crestfallen. Kroenen had had enough. He wanted to get the books that had brought him and Ilsa from Norway all the way to Romania.

"What are you doing here? Why were you following us?" demanded Kroenen.

"I think _I _should be the one asking that question. _I _happen to live here. Vhat are _you _doing trespassing in _my_ castle?" Volker shot back.

"Looking for books on the Occult." Kroenen replied harshly.

"Ah." A slow smile crossed the vampire's ashen face and his anger disappeared, "You're trying to resurrect Grigory, ja?" Volker walked over to the fireplace and did something Kroenen couldn't see. Almost instantly a fire sprang up in the cold grate and cast a reddish light over the room. The vampire stood beside the fire, an orange glow lighting up one side of his pale face. "My condolences to you for the fall of the Nazis. And the betrayal of your friend Erica Schwarz." the vampire said, hissing as he said her name.

"How do you know about Erica?" Kroenen asked, his voice tight as he recalled the events that had brought Project Ragnarok to a crashing failure that had irreparably crippled both the Nazis and the Thule Occult Society.

"How do I know about her?" Volker asked, his words tinged with anger. His voice grew steadily louder as he spoke and his eyes burned with anger, "You ask me how I know about _her_? News travels fast among creatures of the dark. And I have recently had the misfortune of learning about her from my kindred. My _remaining_ kindred, at least." He turned to face the fire, his hands clenched into fists. "She has lately done something I find totally unforgivable. She has _murdered_ several of my friends, all of them vampires! _Killed_ them—_staked_ them—_gone!_" He whirled around to face Kroenen and Ilsa, his electric blue eyes burning with barely contained anger. Suddenly the anger faded and he walked over to the desk and sat down. He leaned back wearily. "I vould go after her, but I vouldn't have a chance. The BPRD is too vell guarded, I'd never get in. And vhen she's outside of it she's alvays with her friends."

Kroenen thought for a moment. "Perhaps we can come to an agreement." he said. Volker looked at him curiously. "All of us want revenge and I have an idea about how we can get it. You stay here and attack some of the local villagers. That's sure to get the attention of the BPRD and lure them here. When they get inside this castle you can make sure Erica gets separated from the others. When she does, capture her and bring her to us in Norway. In return, we will give you a sizable reward in gold. And you can watch when we sacrifice her to the Ogdru Jahad."

The vampire leaned forward on the desk and steepled his fingers as he considered the offer. "I vould like to be able to kill her myself." Volker said after a moment.

"The Ogdru Jahad have the prior claim on her blood." Ilsa pointed out, her blond hair shining in the firelight.

"Ah yes. A pity," Volker said wistfully, "But I'll do it."

"Good. Can we have the books we came for?" Ilsa asked.

"Ja, help yourself." Volker said, gesturing at the bookshelves that went from floor to ceiling, "Borrow as many as you vant. I don't need all of them. There's a thousand or so. I can't imagine I'll miss any of them." He stood up and walked towards the doorway. He paused and turned back. "See you in Norvay, say, a veek from now?"

"The dead travel fast." Kroenen observed.

"Ja, and so do those of us vho are dead to the vorld." Volker said, gazing at Kroenen and Ilsa pointedly, "So, a veek?"

"Done." Kroenen said as Ilsa went over to the bookshelves and began searching among the titles for the ones they had come for.

Volker grinned, displaying his long sharp fangs. "Auf wiedersehen." he said and began to leave.

"Oh, and Volker," Kroenen said, stopping the vampire in his tracks, "Bring her to us alive and unharmed. Every drop of her blood belongs to the Ogdru Jahad." The clockwork assassin paused and then added as an after thought: "Don't tell her Ilsa and I sent you. And don't touch her."

"Touch her? Vhatever do you mean?" the vampire asked, feigning innocence. It was very ineffective.

"You _know_ what I mean. Biting her to kill her or to turn her into one of your kind counts as harming her."

"I vouldn't dream of doing that to her." Volker said bitterly, "She doesn't deserve to be one of my kind. And I think I'll enjoy vatching her tortured to death much more than just biting her once."

"Don't come to Norway without her." Kroenen said, the warning clear in his voice.

"I von't." the vampire called over his shoulder as he left the room. As soon as he was gone the fire in the fireplace went out, plunging the room into darkness.

"_Scheiße_!" Ilsa cursed in the blackness. She stalked over to the desk and picked up the lantern so she could see the titles of the books on the shelves.

Kroenen went to the door and looked down the hall to make sure Volker was really gone. There was no sign of the vampire. Kroenen closed the door and then walked over to the bookshelves to help Ilsa.

"Well, that was easy," Ilsa said as she pulled a book down from the shelves, "Though I'm not so sure you should trust him."

"He did agree to help us a little too readily. He might be sincere, but there is the possibility that he's more interested in getting his own revenge than in handing Erica over to us. I know _I _wouldn't be satisfied with just watching someone else kill her." Kroenen thought for a moment. "I don't think Volker would be able to kill her, even if he tried. I was the one who taught her to fight, after all."

"If Volker wouldn't be able to kill her then he might not be able to capture her." Ilsa pointed out as she stood on her tiptoes to reach a book on a shelf above her head. Kroenen reached up and got it down for her.

"If he fails, one would hope he would continue trying until he succeeds. And if he shows up in Norway without her…" he trailed off. Ilsa smiled as she realized what he meant.

"That would be fun," she said, a cruel glint coming into her ice blue eyes…

Author's Notes: Another sorta-cliffe (Don't you love my terminology?)! Kroenen is obsessed with Erica and a little more then a tad bit insane. I hope you liked the flashback. Hehe, now you know why Volker made that remark about having been stabbed through the chest twice in one week! There will be more on Kroenen and Ilsa in the next chapter, as well as what happens to Volker. Tell me if you liked this chapter and review, pretty please!


	5. There’s No Place to Hide

**Chapter 5: There's No Place to Hide**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Volker Maynard the vampire, and the plot that isn't from the movie is mine.

Author's Notes: Thanks for all the reviews! They're really encouraging! Here's what you've all been waiting for: the fight between Kroenen and Volker! Since everyone was looking forward to it, I expanded upon the original half page it took up, and now it's three pages long. A note to my readers: do not, I repeat, do _not_ attempt a re-enactment of the fight scene in here! I'm not sure where you would get a vampire from, but I'm sure some of you have your ways! Ahem, now that I got _that_ out of my system… Ilsa will show up towards the end and get into a little argument with Kroenen. As expected, this chapter has some mild language and violence. Here are the German to English translations: 'Ja' is yes, and 'Nein' is no.

**amyltrer** Hey! Exactly who's side are you on here? Just kidding, between Volker and Kroenen, I guess it _would_ be hard to choose! I hope you like the fight scene—I re-wrote it since you wanted something a bit spectacular!

**iluvrocknroll:** Thanks for the review! As for Kroenen's study, I think visiting would be cool, but I'd hate to think what would happen if anyone stayed longer than that and he found them there—! Eeek!

**The Common Wind Deity: **In response to your question, the flashback to Kroenen and Ilsa in Volker's castle happened before all the other chapters, but the beginning of chapter four took place after Volker's run in with Erica and Hellboy. So everything is in order, Kroenen was just remembering meeting Volker. Sorry for the confusion!

**Gestalt:** Yup, more Kroenen. And you gotta love his obsession! More on Volker in this chapter.

**CicadaS:** Thanks for the review! A bit more Kroenen angst in here. Hope you didn't starve while waiting for this chapter!

**musicamode:** Glad you liked the chapter! Here's more Kroenen and Ilsa for you!

"There are people I know who won't hurt me. I call them corpses."—Randy K. Milholland

"Trust thyself only, and another shall not betray thee."—Thomas Fuller

_October, Present Day_

_A Castle in Norway_

_Night_

Kroenen shook himself to bring himself back to reality, his sudden movement shattering his memory of his meeting with Volker. The clockwork assassin glanced around his study. _Yes, I will have my revenge soon. Either Volker will bring Erica to me, or Grigory will surely go after her once we bring him back._

And Grigory would be back _very_ soon. The books from Volker's library had been invaluable in helping him and Ilsa finish their research. Those books made up most of the current mess in his study, some of them were still open and had sheets of paper lying beside them, each covered in notes written in Kroenen's spidery, elegant handwriting. The notes spelled out every detail about how to resurrect Grigory. In fact, in a day or so he and Ilsa would be leaving for Birgau Pass, Moldavia.

_Hopefully everything will go as planned and Volker will bring Erica to us before we leave,_ Kroenen thought. _That way I can remove one of the main obstacles to our successful release of the Ogdru Jahad._ As for the obstacles Erica presented, fortunately the Ogdru Jahad had intervened as far as Erica's visions were concerned—they had been preventing her from using her abilities to pry into what Kroenen and Ilsa were doing. Which meant she would have no idea he had sent Volker to bring her back to him.

Kroenen felt a surge of self satisfaction at that thought. Once Volker delivered Erica to him he would no longer have to merely entertain daydreams about torturing and killing her—and though those thoughts were a little satisfying, they only added fuel to his burning desire for vengeance. And he wanted revenge almost more than anything else. The desire for it was like a fire blazing inside him. His hate and anger had been growing inside him for the past six decades. He would avenge her treachery. _And the loss of my left hand, _he thought, _Which she is entirely responsible for._

He glanced at the Nazi and Thule Society flag hanging from the bookshelf. The red dragon's wings were spread wide open against the black cloth, a swastika gripped in its claws as the dragon roared. The flag reminded him of the flags that had hung from the ruins of Trondham Abbey, the cloth drenched by the rain as explosions had lit up the night—the flags flying and flapping in the gale force wind as the Allied Soldiers and Nazis locked in a battle that would decide the fate of the world—Images flashed and sounds echoed through Kroenen's mind like ghosts and phantoms as he remembered that terrible night…

BANG!

The sound of the gunshot rang through the air.

Kroenen felt the impact and a tearing sensation as a bullet ripped into his back. Unconcerned, he whirled around, the blades on his wrists raised to strike down his opponent. But instead of an Allied soldier he saw Erica aiming her handgun at him. He paused and his gaze traveled from the anguish on her face to her outstretched arm, still aiming the handgun in his direction. He stared at Erica in confusion and disbelief—

—Erica plunged her blade into his left forearm. The blade went straight through his arm and pinned his wrist to the wall.

"You may kill me, but you'll _never_ forget me!" she yelled.

The words were barely out of her mouth before Kroenen's fingers closed on her right wrist so tightly that she cried out in pain. He yanked her hand away from him so the blade slid out of his arm. He twisted her arm and threw her to the ground. Erica's face crashed into the cold cobblestones. She started to push herself up from the ground—

—He crushed her exhausted body against the stone wall. She struggled weakly, straining to escape despite the fact that he had trapped her against the wall.

"No second chances this time," Kroenen hissed, "Now you will pay for your treachery!"

He saw her grey eyes go wide with horror as his blade rushed at her heart. A moment later she was screaming in agony as he violently thrust the blade into her left shoulder—

—Kroenen lunged for the grenade, his fingers reaching as far as they would go, groping and trying to grasp the grenade with his left hand. But his damaged wrist wasn't working properly anymore, and bones were grinding on bones and making it hard to move. He reached too far and the spinning ring on the portal generator shredded the cuff of his trench coat as he reached for the grenade. He desperately tried to wriggle closer to the grenade without having his hand ripped off. Precious seconds had already been wasted.

"KARL!" Erica yelled, her voice cracking as she cried out.

Kroenen turned his masked face towards her. _Karl? _He thought, _She's never called me that before. Never._ He gazed at her broken body lying in the mud at the base of the stone wall. Her clothes were stained red where blood was trickling down from the wound in her shoulder. Her face was pale and the "T" he had cut into her cheek was slowly oozing blood.

"Checkmate!" Erica shouted weakly, her hoarse voice ringing out. She smiled sadly. "Finally, you lose!"

And then the grenade exploded!

There was a blinding flash of light and a hellish blast of heat accompanied by a deafening boom as the crystal inside the generator shattered, adding even more strength to the explosion. The next thing Kroenen knew he was flung through the air, propelled by the force of the explosion. Kroenen screamed, his limbs thrashing like a spider picked up by one leg—his flight ended abruptly as he felt his back smash into a stone column with bone breaking force. He bounced off of the column and then stumbled backwards and crashed into it again. He stood there for a moment, trying to orient himself. His head felt like it was spinning, he had no idea which way was up—

"Uunhuff." Kroenen moaned.

A long piece of shrapnel pierced him through the stomach. He felt the sickening sensation of metal tearing through his flesh and organs, and then a small 'explosion' inside him as several of his vertebrae were crushed. The piece of shrapnel went out through his back and into the stone column, pinning him there like a spider in an insect collection. His left hand felt strangely numb and he looked down. The explosion had finished what Erica had started when she had stabbed him in the arm—his hand was irreparably destroyed—

The memory ended abruptly. And that brought him back to the present and his work on his left hand.

Kroenen's lidless blue eyes flicked down to the back of his left wrist, critically examining the stump of his arm where six decades ago he had cut off the shredded remains of his hand. He had since rebuilt his entire hand and wrist, relying on his skills with clockwork and black magic to construct something that would perform to his high standards. The end of his wrist was covered by a metal bracket that his mechanical hand fitted into. Below the metal bracket an expanse of pale white scarred flesh covered his arm. But it was one scar in particular that held his gaze: a set of initials that read E.S.. Kroenen's expression hardened and anger writhed inside him. _E.S.—Erica Schwarz. Damn her! _He thought fiercely, remembering how he had gouged her initials into his wrist as a reminder of the traitor he was going to kill.

Kroenen gritted his teeth to suppress his anger. He tore his gaze away. _I'll have my revenge, _he assured himself. He grasped his mechanical hand firmly and pushed it into the metal bracket on his left wrist. There was a satisfying metallic click as the two pieces connected. He let go of the mechanical hand and experimentally rolled his wrist and flexed his fingers, trying out the new adjustments he had made. Pleased with his work, he pulled a black glove over the shining metal hand. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and noted that Volker was three hours late.

_Where is that vampire?_ He thought. Kroenen _hated_ it when people were late. What's more, he didn't have much faith in the creature. _Ah well, if he displeases me, I can always inflict something…unpleasant on him, _he thought, pausing a moment to listen for any unusual noises in the castle that might herald the vampire's arrival.

The room was silent except for the crackling fire and the ticking of clocks. There was no sound of footsteps in the hall or on the stone stairs, no sound of the massive doors of the castle being opened.

_Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…_Kroenen's mechanical heart was heard clearly in the silence.

He began putting his tools away in his desk and then paused as he sensed something about the castle change, as if it had suddenly gotten much colder. But there was no sound of a door or window opening to let in a draft…He cocked his head to the side and listened. As he realized what it was the scar tissue around his exposed teeth twisted into a vague shadow of a grim smile. Kroenen glanced at a nearby clock. _And now he's more than three hours late, _he thought.

Even as the thought crossed his mind the terrible stench of burned flesh wafted into the study, growing in sickening intensity by the second as the vampire got closer.

_Apparently Volker met with some resistance, _Kroenen thought,_ Erica must have put up a good fight. A pity I wasn't there to watch. I would have liked to see how close it was._ He smiled almost proudly, but then he frowned in displeasure, sensing that the castle was too silent for Volker to have brought Erica back with him. _Apparently she won the fight,_ he thought furiously, _Why must I _always FAIL _where she is concerned!_

In a sudden outward explosion of anger, he clenched his mechanical hand into a fist and struck the top of his desk. The small gears lying on top vibrated from the impact. The blow left the impression of a fist dented into the wood, but in his anger Kroenen chose to ignore it. He gritted his teeth to keep himself from screaming in rage and slowly brought himself under a semblance of control. He could feel a dark, burning fury seething and squirming violently inside him.

_Volker, I _dare_ you to come up here and face me, _Kroenen thought as he began to wind up his mechanical heart, _I _dare_ you to come up here without her._

Almost as if on cue, Kroenen heard the rustle of a cape dragging over the threshold of his study. He didn't bother to turn around or stand up. The clockwork assassin had nothing to fear from a vampire: his blood had dried up into dust, and a vampire was unlikely to inflict any lasting damage on him.

"You're late." Kroenen announced simply, speaking over his shoulder to the vampire as the creature slunk into the room.

Volker remained silent, but Kroenen knew he was there: the reeking smell of burned skin would have been overpowering for anyone but himself.

"I thought I told you to bring her back with you." Kroenen said, forcing his voice to remain calm and level.

"I tried—I vas so close, but ve vere…interrupted." Volker said.

Kroenen turned to face the vampire lurking in the shadows beside the doorway. Volker's black frockcoat, hair, cloak, pants, and boots meant that he blended in well with the darkness, but Kroenen was still able to see him clearly. The assassin's detail obsessed eyes flicked over the vampire's pallid skin, studying the two huge cross shaped burns on the left side of the creature's face. The vampire reached up to tuck a few loose strands of his long black hair behind his ear, and the cuff of his frock coat slipped a little, revealing a third cross shaped burn on his left wrist. All of the burns were black in the center and surrounded by fiery red blistered flesh that was weeping fluids. Volker's face was impassive, but an expression of pain glinted in the vampire's electric blue eyes.

_Obviously he did something to Erica to make her fight back so violently. And I doubt that 'something' was within the rules of our agreement,_ Kroenen thought grimly.

"I also thought I told you not to touch her." Kroenen said sternly.

"Touch her?" Volker asked, feigning innocence, "Of course I had to. How else did you expect me to capture her—?"

"You know what I mean," Kroenen said harshly, "I told you not to harm her and that included biting her to kill her."

Volker was silent, astonishment plastered across his ashen face. "How—?"

"People are extremely predictable," Kroenen replied curtly, "And no one knows that better than assassins. Now, considering the burns are on _your face_, it implies that she was trying to prevent you from _biting_ her."

"Don't vorry, she's completely unharmed." Volker quickly assured him.

"Despite all your best efforts, I'm sure." Kroenen replied dryly, a hint of anger in his voice. "And don't try to change the subject. It's obvious you tried to kill her, unless those burns on your face are some form of vampire tattoo."

Volker's pale fingers strayed up to the burns, his hand shaking with pain and anger as they trailed over his wounds. "_She_ did this. The Angel of Death? Hmf, the Bloody Angel vould be more fitting. And I say that from personal experience." the vampire said bitterly.

"Oh, ja, I know. No one knows my Angel better than me," Kroenen said confidently, "Though _I _prefer to call her The Angel of Death. There is a reason I called her that, but I see I don't have to explain that to you. You shouldn't have underestimated her, she _was_ my student. But I see you discovered for yourself just how capable of defending herself she is."

"Yes. _Quite_." the vampire snarled.

Kroenen turned his back to Volker and picked up some of his tools and put them neatly inside one of the desk drawers. Filled with frustration, he pushed a little too hard on the drawer and it slammed shut. He mentally berated himself for his outward display of emotion, which only irritated him even more. Volker's failure was both immensely frustrating and strangely, a source of pride: Kroenen was frustrated that his revenge had been delayed, but he was also proud that Erica had managed to win the fight with Volker. Her fighting skills were a tribute to him, since he had been her teacher. _At least she's an opponent worthy of the title of my enemy. I'll get my revenge eventually. For the moment I'll satisfy myself with revenge on someone more readily available, _he thought as he picked up the last of his tools and opened another desk drawer—

"I don't know vhy you vould vant her alive anyvay," the vampire muttered under his breath.

Unfortunately for Volker, Kroenen heard him. Instead of responding he clenched his gloved hand around the edge of the desk drawer as he struggled to maintain his self control. _Not that it really matters if I don't, since I wasn't exactly planning on doing so, _he thought.

"If I had wanted her murdered don't you think I would have gone in person instead of sending _you_?" Kroenen grated out, speaking over his shoulder, "Volker, tell me, were my instructions not clear enough for you? I thought that telling you to bring her back unharmed was a fairly simple and clear instruction, and still you managed to fail me."

"I could go back." Volker quickly suggested. It seemed he was finally catching on that Kroenen was _not_ in a good mood.

"Nein, nein, it's too late for that. There was only one chance—she knows we're after her now. Which is why my last instruction was so important. Do you remember was it was?" Kroenen asked. He released his death grip on his desk drawer and ignored the dents his fingers had put in the wood. He put the last of his tools inside and then slowly, almost idly began sorting though the things in the drawer. In his seething anger his fingers bumped into objects in the drawer, knocking over several glass vials filled with chemicals and various fluids. His fingers inched closer to the back of the drawer and the rag that hid the weapon he was seeking: a sharpened wooden stake.

There was silence as the vampire thought over Kroenen's words. "Nein." he finally answered.

"I thought not," Kroenen said, his simple words thick with a foreboding finality. In the drawer his fingers brushed past the rag and triumphantly curled around the stake. It was a weapon he didn't normally use, but he knew the baton swords strapped to his legs would do little damage to the vampire. "Shall I refresh your memory for you? I told you _not _to come to Norway without her. So exactly _why_ are you here?" Kroenen asked, an edge in his voice.

"Vhere else vas I supposed to go? By now she and her friends are probably back in America. And I thought you might like to know vhat had happened. Besides that, I think you owe me something for my injuries." Volker said, glowering.

"Do you now?" Kroenen asked, his voice dangerously polite, "Oh, have no fear, you will certainly be rewarded for your services. However, your performance has been…much less than satisfactory. And you shall be rewarded accordingly." Kroenen savored the moment and then grasped the wooden stake, bracing himself to attack.

"You will be rewarded with _DEATH!_" Kroenen snarled as he whirled around and thrust the wooden stake at Volker's heart—

Kroenen saw Volker's electric blue eyes widen in shock. To the assassin's disappointment, the vampire just barely reached out in time to save himself. Volker's pale hands wrapped around the wooden stake, his claw-like nails digging into the wood as he pushed the weapon toward Kroenen to prevent the assassin from driving the stake into his chest. For a moment they stood there, each of them straining to push the stake towards the other, Kroenen pitting his combination of clockwork, science, and black magic against the vampire's supernatural strength.

With a sudden burst of strength, Volker twisted the stake to the side and flung Kroenen into the wall. Kroenen's body slammed into the stone wall with bone jarring force. The impact heavily dented the side of his mask, but he still managed to hold onto the stake. With practiced ease he quickly regained his balance and used his momentum to bodily throw Volker to the ground. The vampire landed on his back—Kroenen stood over him, bearing down on the stake with all of his strength and weight. Slowly, ever so slowly, the point inched closer to the vampire's chest. Volker pushed back, holding on with both hands, his desperation shining clear in his eyes. Kroenen pushed down harder—all of a sudden, Volker let go of the stake with one hand, and still holding onto it with his left, he drew a long knife from his belt. Before Kroenen could react, the vampire's arm darted towards Kroenen's leg like a striking snake—and the knife blade sank into the taught muscles on the outside of his left thigh. Weakened, Kroenen's left leg shook and quivered unsteadily as the metal he had improved his muscles with slowly began to compensate for the injury—Volker seized his opportunity: he snatched the wooden stake from Kroenen's grasp and then rolled out from under him. Volker quickly scrambled to his feet, smiled smugly, and threw the wooden stake at the roaring flames in the fireplace.

Kroenen watched the wooden stake arc towards the fire, knowing it was next to impossible that it would actually land among the flames. He bent down and tugged on the hilt of the knife embedded in his thigh—The stake hit the mantelpiece and fell to the floor with a clatter, out of reach of the flames. The vampire's triumphant expression vanished instantly. He glanced towards Kroenen, and with a look of resolute determination on his pallid face, Volker reached into the sleeves of his black frockcoat—

Kroenen yanked Volker's knife out of his leg. A small stream of white sand trickled from the wound, but the clockwork assassin wasn't concerned. Compared to what he was used to, the wound was barely a scratch. Kroenen heard the distant metallic sound of blades being drawn from their sheaths and looked up to see Volker pull two long, thin knives from inside his sleeves: poniards.

The vampire attacked, his eyes burning with rage. Volker's poniards flashed in the light as they darted towards Kroenen's throat in a maneuver that resembled a pair of scissors—Kroenen ducked under the blades and heard the air sing as the poniards whistled over the top of his head, one blade crossing the other in a way that would have beheaded him had he not moved. The assassin quickly stepped to the side and grabbed the vampire's wrists with his left hand as Volker tried to uncross his blades—crushing Volker's wrists in his mechanical hand, Kroenen pushed the vampire backwards into the side of a shelf of books—the assassin raised his right arm and stabbed Volker through the shoulder with the vampire's own knife, effectively pinning Volker to the bookcase. Volker screamed in pain and rage as Kroenen backed away and watched the vampire struggle to free himself. _How fortunate that I bolted all of my book shelves to the walls, _Kroenen thought.

Volker finally dropped one of his poniards and yanked on the dagger pinning him to the bookshelf. _And that's my cue, _Kroenen thought as he pulled out his baton swords with a flourish and ran towards the vampire.

Volker pulled the knife out of his shoulder just in time to leap out of the way of Kroenen's attack. The vampire snarled and threw the knife at Kroenen. It whizzed through the air in a blur of light—and sank into Kroenen's chest. Kroenen glanced down at it, unconcerned. He idly pulled out the knife and tossed it in the direction of the doorway as Volker took the opportunity to retrieve the poniard he had dropped—and stood up in the nick of time to block Kroenen's baton swords.

Their battle became a never ending series of equally matched lightening quick attacks and ferocious defenses as they made their way around the room, finally ending up in front of the fireplace. Kroenen struck out at Volker, twisting his baton sword as it made contact with the poniard in Volker's left hand. As a result the poniard went flying over Kroenen's head and landed on the floor behind him. The vampire's shock at being partially disarmed was displayed clearly on his face—before Volker could recover, Kroenen whipped his other baton sword towards his opponent. The sword went through the vampire's wrist, pinning the hand still holding a poniard to the mantelpiece. The assassin stabbed his other sword towards Volker's stomach, impaling him. The vampire grimaced, and then relaxed and turned his electric blue eyes to face Kroenen.

"Between you and Erica, that's the third time in about a veek I've been impaled on these swords," Volker said, a sardonic smile on his face, "You know, this could take hours. So, I vas vondering, are ve going to continue fighting into eternity?"

"Nein! I'm going to kill you!" Kroenen spat.

"I think not!"

And with that Volker tore his wrist free of the blade pinning it to the mantelpiece and seized Kroenen's wrists in a grip like iron, forcing Kroenen to drop his baton swords. The vampire pulled him in close and Kroenen could see the vampire's eyes burning with insanity—suddenly the world spun as Volker pulled on Kroenen's wrists and flung him into the fireplace. Kroenen shrieked and tried to twist away from the flames. It was to no avail. He crashed into the pile of burning logs. His head hit the back of the fireplace and the impact cracked one of the thick glass eyes of his metal mask. Thick smoke blinded him and glowing red hot embers snapped as he turned and thrashed, trying to escape the terrible heat. He finally managed to roll out of the fireplace. He flopped onto the floor and lay there in a heap. The smoldering embers he had kicked out of the fire lay scattered around him on the floor, each one smoking and slowly dying. He lay there for a moment, breathing heavily as the heat from the fire dissipated from his body and went into the cold stone floor. Kroenen briefly considered how fortunate he was that his clothing was made of a material that was mostly fireproof. Then the assassin got onto his knees and started to push himself to his feet—

"Hmm. I guess I vould have been asking for too much if I had expected that to kill you." Volker said.

Kroenen looked up and saw Volker standing near the doorway, holding both of his poniards. Obviously he had retrieved his other one while Kroenen had been otherwise occupied in the fireplace.

"Ja. It would have been," Kroenen replied, his voice hoarse, "You can't kill me—I'm not alive enough to die."

"A pity. But this is vhere I leave you." Volker started for the doorway.

An insane laugh bubbled up inside Kroenen and escaped from his lipless mouth. Volker stopped in the doorway and turned around to stare at him.

And that was when Kroenen reached out and hit the lever that was disguised as a part of the decorative molding on the mantelpiece.

Instantly, a row of needle sharp, stainless steel spikes shot down from the lintel of the doorway and fell straight towards Volker. It was only the vampire's unnatural speed that allowed him to move: Volker tried to get out from under the falling spikes, but he tripped over the knife lying on the floor—the same knife that Kroenen had pulled out of his chest. The vampire fell and landed on his back. He dropped his poniards and they skittered across the floor out of his reach. And before he could move again, it was too late.

The spikes came crashing down on top of him—and went right through his torso!

There was a horrible crunching sound of ribs snapping accompanied by Volker's shriek, and then the sound of metal grating on stone as the spikes came out through the vampire's back and sank into the stone floor. Impaled on the spikes, Volker lay there for a moment. Kroenen could tell that the vampire was unharmed—he was just trapped. Which was exactly how he wanted him.

Kroenen stood up and picked up his baton swords. He put them back in their sheaths and then retrieved the wooden stake from the floor next to the fireplace. And then he started walking towards Volker. There wasn't any hurry, Kroenen knew the vampire couldn't escape. Kroenen saw the vampire's eyes flick from him to the wooden stake he was holding in his hand—and then he saw Volker panic. The vampire struggled, pulling at the metal spikes that were pinning him to the floor. Kroenen walked closer. Volker desperately tried to reach his poniards, which were now laying outside in the hall. He stretched and clawed, but it was useless. The weapons were several inches out of his reach.

"Your efforts are futile, Volker." Kroenen said in an even voice, "And you know it."

By now he was standing over the vampire. Volker was shaking. Suddenly the vampire's eyes lit up—his arm snaked out and snatched up the knife he had tripped over—and plunged the blade into Kroenen's calf muscle. Kroenen winced a little but ignored the wound. He leaned down over Volker.

"You know, you were right. This _is_ where you'll be leaving me." Kroenen said.

The clockwork assassin drew back his arm, preparing to strike the killing blow—The vampire's eyes widened with horror—

And then Kroenen stabbed him straight through the heart.

"AAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrgggggggggggggggggghhhhh!" Volker's ear-splitting shriek echoed off the stone walls of the castle, making the air ring.

The vampire's electric blue eyes rolled in his head as he clawed at the stake impaling him, desperately trying to pull it from his body. Kroenen simply shoved harder on the stake, driving it deeper into Volker's heart—Volker thrashed and flailed violently, but Kroenen ignored the rain of blows even as the pain maddened vampire's long nails scrabbled against the floor, leaving long scratches in the stone mere centimeters from Kroenen's boots.

A guttural gasp escaped Volker's throat and his electric blue eyes stared out of his head as his back arched and he suddenly went into convulsions. The vampire's nails tore at the stake embedded in his body and his tortured screams grew louder and more intense as his body began to dissolve into ash. Feeling satisfied, Kroenen finally released his grip on the stake and stood up to watch the dying vampire. Volker's last dying shriek hung in the air as Kroenen calmly watched the distorted remains of the vampire's body disintegrate. A moment later there was only a thin scattering of dust on the stone floor with a wooden stake and a few metal spikes lying in its center. For once the clockwork assassin's skull-like grin actually expressed how he felt: supreme satisfaction. But his triumph slowly faded as he realized the reality of the situation: He had failed. _Again._

_Damn it!_ Kroenen thought, slamming his fist into the doorframe in his frustration._ Erica was almost in our grasp! I practically gift-wrapped the whole situation for that vampire, and he _still_ failed to bring her back! By now she'll be back in America and she'll be too far away for me to kill her before Ilsa and I leave for Moldavia!_

He glared at the pile of ashes lying on the floor just inside the doorway.

"Why is competent help so hard to find?" Kroenen asked of the empty room, voicing his deep frustrations aloud.

Kroenen reached down and pulled the knife out of his calf muscle. _I'll have to start stitching my wounds closed, _he thought. That was when he glanced at the flames in the fireplace and noticed that a huge crack in one of the glass eyes of his mask was distorting his view of the room. He instinctively put a hand up to his mask and felt the surface to assess the damage. His gloved fingers slid over the metal and into the large dents from the vampire's attacks. Kroenen swore vehemently and kicked angrily at the pile of Volker's ashes, scattering them across the floor and out into the hallway.

Cursingintensely at the inconvenience, Kroenen dropped the vampire's knife on his desk and then sat down and fumbled with the leather straps and the two buckles that held his mask on. _This was so much easier when Erica was there to help you, wasn't it?_ a little voice said in the back of his mind. Kroenen mentally squished it into oblivion as he took his damaged mask off and set it on the desk. He reached for one of the other masks on his desk, wincing as the dry, bookish air of his study hit his exposed gums and lidless eyes. _I almost wish I still had eyelids so I could blink,_ he thought. He slid the mask on and began buckling the straps with a practiced, if slightly awkward, gesture. He finished strapping the mask on just as he heard a pair of jackboots tapping sharply against the stone floor, heading towards him. He looked up and turned toward the doorway, waiting expectantly. A moment later a slender, beautiful woman with short blonde hair appeared in the doorway. She was dressed head to toe in black and was carrying a sledgehammer in a very business-like fashion. She looked exactly like the other woman in the black and white photograph of The Three on Kroenen's desk, and for good reason. She was Ilsa Haupstien, and like Erica, Grigory had given her the gift of immortality and eternal youth on October 9, 1944.

Ilsa's cold, piercing blue eyes glanced down at the wooden stake lying among the scattering of ashes and dust on the floor. Then she looked at the row of metal spikes embedded in the stone floor in the middle of the doorway. Her lips curled into a mock expression of disgust. "Why don't you ever clean up after yourself, Karl?" she asked.

Kroenen ignored Ilsa's jab at his obsessive compulsive tendencies, though he did glance at the room around him long enough to realize what a mess it was. He really _did_ need to clean up. But that could wait for later. Kroenen turned away from Ilsa and got out the tools he needed to fix the damage Volker had done to his mask.

Ilsa leaned against the doorframe and wrinkled her nose, this time in an expression of real disgust. "Why does it smell like burned flesh in here?" she asked calmly. She shot a sideways glance at the top of Kroenen's desk. "You haven't been cutting yourself up again and cauterizing the wounds, have you? It would be such a pity to have missed the show."

"No, I haven't been 'cutting myself up again'. I was dealing with Volker."

Ilsa's eyes lit up with excitement. She knew that 'dealing with' equaled torturing or killing to Kroenen's mind. "And?" she asked.

"You're standing in what's left of him."

"_Scheiße_," Ilsa said, looking down at the ashes. She was obviously disappointed. "A pity. I would have liked to have helped. I never liked that vampire."

"Is that what the sledgehammer was for?" Kroenen asked. He glanced at her warily, knowing how Ilsa's temper had a tendency to flare up at the most random things, especially when she was bored.

"Yes and no. I heard screaming and thought you might be having some fun with a trespasser." Ilsa glanced around room and then back at Kroenen. "I take it Volker failed to bring Erica back."

"Is there an inordinate amount of agonized screaming coming from my lab?" Kroenen replied, his voice betraying the bitterness he felt.

"I'm assuming that means no," Ilsa said as she came further into the room, stepping over the metal spikes and then pausing for a fraction of a second to deliberately grind the vampire's ashes into the floor with the toe of her black boot. She walked over to one of the red, high-backed armchairs and wrinkled her nose in distaste when she saw the chair's cushion was heaped with books. She moved the books to the floor and then sat down, laying her sledgehammer on the floor next to the chair. She threw one of her legs over the arm of the chair and crossed her arms. "I really didn't expect Volker could do it."

"Good help is nearly impossible to come by," Kroenen grumbled.

"If you wanted to make sure Erica was captured you should have done it _yourself_." Ilsa said, a bit harshly.

Kroenen shrugged, ignoring how rude she was being. He knew she was probably just trying to irritate him. Or she was angry about something. "It didn't have to be done. It was simply an opportunity that presented itself and one that I decided to take advantage of." He opened one of the desk drawers and took out an extra glass eyepiece to replace the cracked one in his mask. "Next time I won't have to send someone to fetch her. I'll do it myself. I'm sure it'll be a _pleasant_ visit."

"For you or her?"

"Do you really need to ask that?" he said, glancing up from removing the cracked eyepiece from his mask.

"You're obsessed." Ilsa stated. There was a hint of affection in her tone, "And insane."

"Aren't we all." he murmured distractedly.

There was silence as Kroenen finished replacing the eyepiece of his mask and then carefully cleaned the surface of the thick glass. He pretended to be looking down at his mask as he worked, but he was really watching Ilsa—something that was made much easier by the mask he was wearing since it hid his eyes. Ilsa was quiet, but he could tell she was growing impatient. She swung her leg back and forth as it dangled over the arm of the chair—not a good sign, and one that meant she was angry about something and trying to hide it. She finally broke the silence.

"I came to tell you something."

"Good. I was wondering why you were still here." he replied, hoping to irritate her so he could find out what she was angry about.

Ilsa looked at him crossly. "I finished preparing our forged passports and IDs. All the arrangements are made. We can leave for Birgau Pass, Moldavia whenever we're ready."

"So you found a way around airport security and their cursed metal detectors?" Kroenen asked. Metal detectors were a huge inconvenience for them, especially him. Besides both of them preferring to be armed at all times, his body was laced with metal from the improvements he had made over the years. Explaining _that_ to airport security would be nearly impossible.

"Ja," Ilsa replied, pretending to idly examine her long red fingernails in an obvious effort to hide her anger, "It's amazing what people will do for a few gold pieces, even if they are marked with swastikas."

"I'll pack when I'm finished here," he said, making a dismissive gesture in her direction. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, knowing he had probably just pushed her over the edge. _Good. Maybe I'll find out why she's irritated, _he thought.

Ilsa stood up stiffly and glared at him, her icy eyes flashing. "Clean up while you're at it, _arschloch_. I never thought someone with OCD could be so horribly disorganized," she said cruelly. She picked up her sledgehammer and strode towards the door.

"I wouldn't talk to me like that if I were you," he warned her. He put down his mask, stood up and stepped into her path, blocking her way to the door.

She stopped and looked at him, a spiteful smile hovering on her lips. "I just did. Get over it." Ilsa quickly stepped to the side to get around him—and fell over a stack of books on the floor.

"_Damn it, Karl!_" she yelled as she pushed the books aside and scrambled ungracefully to her feet. "How many times do I have to tell you to—!"

"Clean up?" he finished for her, "At least once more. Things get untidy when you're doing research. And some of this is _your_ mess. And if you don't want to fall over things, perhaps _you_ should watch where you're going. Or perhaps you should simply avoid coming in here."

Ilsa snarled at him and, without thinking, swung her sledgehammer as hard as she could at his chest. Kroenen reached out and effortlessly caught it by the handle. The wood made a sharp slapping sound as it hit his leather glove. Ilsa glared at him. Clearly she knew she wouldn't be able to pull the sledgehammer away from him. But she was also too stubborn to let go. Kroenen took the opportunity to look down into her burning blue eyes. Sudden understanding struck him.

"I see," he said quietly, "You've been robbed of Volker, your intended target, so now you've found someone else to take out your frustrations on. Maybe we could find more…creative ways to do that."

"Shut up." Ilsa said through clenched teeth, the threat clear in her voice.

"Then stay away from here when you're in one of your moods," Kroenen advised sternly, his voice quiet, "Like you are now. Then maybe you and I will avoid regaining consciousness in a predicament you'll later refuse to remember, and I'll spend the next few days recovering from."

Ilsa half gasped, half hissed at him, torn between anger and an emotion Kroenen couldn't identify. "Just because Grigory doesn't know…" she trailed off. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then shook her head. "Never mind. What Grigory doesn't know won't hurt him."

"Or us." Kroenen added dryly.

Her blue eyes flew open, the expression in them unreadable except for her ever present sense of purpose. "You should start packing. We're leaving in the morning. Take anything you might need—we might not be coming back here."

Kroenen nodded and slowly let go of the sledgehammer. Ilsa nodded, turned on her heel and walked out. She stopped abruptly just outside the doorway and picked up the pair of poniards that had belonged to Volker. Expressionless, she stepped back into the room and left the pair of blades on one of the bookshelves before she turned on her heel and left.

Once the tapping of her footsteps had fallen into silence, Kroenen surveyed his study. _I won't need much, _he decided, _Just my blades, some medical equipment and tools, a few extra masks and repair pieces, a few books, and my phonograph_.

He walked around his study and began sorting through the mountains of books and paper to find the things he needed. He gathered up an armload of books and dumped them on the desk along with their corresponding notes and a backpack. He started packing, organizing the books and sorting through his tools and medical equipment for the things he would need.

_I'll want my baton swords and wrist blades, too,_ he thought, _If we're not coming back, I'll want them for when we get to America and I can focus on killing Erica._

He might not have any more time over the next few days to devote to his obsessive 'hobby' of trying to track down Erica and kill her, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be thinking about it. He had been thinking about it for the past six decades and wasn't about to stop now. What did it matter if her treachery had been sixty years ago? The passage of time had done nothing to make the pain of betrayal fade away. If anything, it had intensified it to the point where his pain had become a murderous obsession. His blood, though it was only dust, still felt like it was boiling in his veins whenever he thought about her.

But that was to be expected.

After all, he hated her with a passion, and technically, she _was_ part of his blood.

_No doubt my blood is trying to separate from hers,_ he thought bitterly, _despite how useless the effort is. I would do it myself if I could, but the magic of the bond is too strong. Her blood will never go away. Just like Ilsa's will never go away. We're all a part of each other, we all have each other's blood in our veins, thanks to that damn ceremony._

When Erica had willingly agreed to join them, Grigory had bound Erica, Kroenen, and Ilsa to each other through a ceremony where they each cut their hands and touched the others wounds and shared a little of their blood. The original intention had been to bind Erica to her oath and to make it easier for The Three to work together, since they'd have some insight into where each other were, how they felt, and so on. It was an unbelievably strong bond, one that Kroenen doubted even Grigory could break. Which meant he and Ilsa were tied to Erica, no matter how much they hated her or wanted her dead.

_But then again, the bond does have its uses: it will help lead me to her once I'm fairly close to her, _the clockwork assassin thought as he put a few extra daggers into his bag, _And once Rasputin is back we're sure to be going to America to find Anung-un-Rama, or Hellboy, as Professor Broom has named that demon. We need him to release the Ogdru Jahad, since rebuilding the portal generator would be pointless, as the crystal that powered it was destroyed by the explosion. And I'm sure that while we're in America I'll have some extra time that I can devote to hunting Erica down. Who knows, as soon as she's aware of my presence, she might even come looking for me and make my task a little easier._

He finished putting his few belongings into the backpack and then picked up a black leather trench coat that had been lying over the back of a chair. He pulled it on with a practiced gesture and then sighed contentedly as the familiar weight of the leather settled over his body. _There, _he thought, _that's finished. I'll leave everything else here. I should go downstairs and make sure the castle is sealed to prevent people or anything else getting in. After that I'll take care of my injuries. _The assassin started towards the door and then paused, turning back to look at his desk. _Wait, I did forget something, _he thought as he picked up the black and white photograph of himself, Ilsa, and Erica, _I'll bring this, too_.

As he looked at the photograph his promise to Erica from sixty years ago echoed in his mind: "I'll find you, though Heaven bar the way!" He still didn't know if he had meant it as a threat or not.

He gazed at the photo with lidless, staring blue eyes. _You have eternity to wait for us, don't you Erica? You're a problem that's not going to disappear on its own. Well, no matter. No one lives forever,_ he thought, _You might only be able to die a violent death, but never fear—I intend to make sure that you do._

Kroenen tore his gaze away from the picture. He gently slid the photograph out of the frame, and then put the picture in the inside pocket of his trench coat.

The next time he and Erica met, only one of them would walk away—and it wasn't going to be her.

And he and Ilsa were leaving in the morning.

Author's Notes: Hehe, now you know what happened to Volker! I hope everyone liked the fight scene, the flashback to October 9, 1944, and the insinuations about what Kroenen and Ilsa might have been up to together over the past sixty years, hint, hint! The next chapter will be at the BPRD, and might have a short bit of it with Kroenen and Ilsa in it. Please review!


	6. Back at the BPRD

**Chapter 6: Back at the BPRD**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. I also do not own 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Mozart, or The Phantom of the Opera (despite the fact that I would like to. Erik is awesome!). However, Erica Schwarz, Volker Maynard the vampire, Razvan Arcos the guide, and the plot that isn't from the movie is mine.

Author's Notes: Thanks so much for all the reviews, the number of responses was overwhelming! They really encouraged me to embellish this chapter. Reviewers, you all are _awesome_! So, chapter six…some humor at Erica's expense as she attempts cooking, and the first hint that Professor Broom is sick (it's in there, you just have to read carefully). Also, a bit of hinted at romance. As always here are the German to English translations: 'Mein Gott' is My God, 'Fräulein' is Miss, and 'Danke' is thank you. Enjoy the chapter!

**iluvrocknroll:** Wow, _TWO_ reviews from you! Thanks! Yeah, fight scenes are absolute _hell_ to write. I'm actually surprised I do so well with it…Kroenen x Ilsa. Hehe. That little plot bunny has been gnawing at my brain for a while. As for if Grigory will find out or not—he seems to be fairly all knowing, but who knows? I'll have to see what happens.

**amyltrer:** Don't worry, Erica and Kroenen are going to meet sooner than you might think, probably around chapter eight. I like your idea about the rose…I think I'll use it! And Rasputin should be in chapter eight as well.

**Sincerely in Blood:** All I can say is WOW! Thanks for your dedication to my story! I'm glad to have restored your faith in fanfiction, there are good stories out there if you can find them! And I do put a lot of time into keeping the plot and characters realistic, it's great to know it shows. Thanks for telling me I occasionally have too much detail, hopefully I'll be aware of that and fix it in the future. Thanks again! You're awesome!

**Gestalt:** You liked the fight and Kroenen x Ilsa too? Cool! There's another flashback in here, since everyone likes them so much. Hehehe, that line was pretty funny! I think it's my favorite from that chapter. Angry Kroenen! Pokes Kroenen too

**The Common Wind Deity:** There's another Kroenen and Ilsa viewpoint in here, since you said you liked it so much! Tiddlywinks—haha. Yeah, I think they must have gotten either really bored, or really drunk one night. Or both…

**vihnanime:** Another new reviewer! You rock! Glad you loved chapter five!

"The heart has reasons which reason cannot understand."—Blaise Pascal

_October, Present Day_

_The BPRD's Kitchen_

_Late Morning_

The industrial sized kitchen at the BPRD showed every sign of an enormous breakfast being prepared for the BPRD's inhabitants. The counters were heaped with dirty bowls, spoons, measuring cups, and other dishes. Scattered haphazardly among the dirty crockery were several cartons of eggs, empty gallon jugs of milk, and a couple half empty bags of flour. Eggshells and a heavy dusting of flour over all the horizontal surfaces gave away the presence of a cook that was very hard at work.

"Whoops. I burned the pancakes again." Erica said, staring down at the charred, lumpy mass in the bottom of the cast iron skillet sitting on the industrial sized gas stove. "But that's not really much of a surprise."

Professor Broom sighed loudly and closed his eyes, praying for patience. Attempting to teach Erica to cook was _not_ an easy task. And 'attempting' was certainly the key word. "What did you do?" he asked.

"I have no idea. I just have to go near food and poof! It gets burned." Erica said. She gestured at the pan on the stove to emphasize her point. As if on cue, the burned remains of the pancakes burst into flames.

"Whoa!" Erica shouted, jumping away from the stove. Instinctively she grabbed the closest container of liquid and upended it on the flames. The flames instantly went out and the cast iron skillet sizzled and hissed like embers in a fire as the cold milk spread across the pan and overflowed onto the stove top—effectively drowning one of the two electric blue gas flames under the pan. Thick smoke billowed up from the scorched lumps in the pan and Erica started coughing as she tried to wave it away.

"Turn on the fan," Broom said, coughing.

"The what?" Erica asked, sounding confused.

"The fan! Hurry or you'll set the smoke alarms off!"

"Where's the switch?" Erica asked, hunting high and low for it.

The Professor sighed, and with his eyes watering from the smoke, reached out and flipped the switch to turn on the fan over the stove. The fan instantly went to work, sucking the smoke out of the kitchen. The Professor turned and looked at Erica, who was still holding the dripping container of milk. She smiled at him sheepishly.

"Um, oops?" she said.

"Erica, I fail to understand how you _still_ haven't learned to cook, despite all of my efforts." Professor Broom said.

Erica shrugged and set down the plastic milk carton. "I guess I just wasn't meant to. I have talents in other areas."

"Clearly," Broom replied, gazing at the slightly smoking mess on the stove.

"Well, so much for making breakfast for everyone" Erica said. She removed the pan from the stove and scraped its contents into a nearby trashcan before dumping the heavy cast iron skillet in the sink.

CRASH!

Professor Broom winced at the sound of breaking dishes and looked at Erica, who was frozen in place, her back to the sink.

"Mein Gott, what did I do _now_?" she asked.

"From the sound of it you just broke all the dishes I put in the sink."

"I'm not even going to look."

Professor Broom sighed in exasperation and sank into a nearby chair, shaking his head. _Dear Lord, whatever will I do with her?_ he thought, watching as Erica brushed the flour off of her black T-shirt and tan corduroy pants. She pushed a strand of hair out of her face, effectively and inadvertently streaking flour across her cheek and into her hair.

Suddenly, the double doors of the kitchen swung open and Hellboy and Agent Clay walked in. Hellboy was scowling and Professor Broom could hear his son's stomach rumbling with hunger. Clay followed close behind the tall red demon, looking irritated. _He's probably wondering why breakfast is late, _Broom thought. Clay was one of those people who had a schedule and stuck to it, come hell or high water. And right now his schedule was being disrupted by breakfast being more than an hour late.

Hellboy glanced around the chaos reigning over the kitchen and his golden gaze fell on Erica. He immediately froze in place, with the result that Clay ran into his back and stepped on his tail, only irritating the hungry demon even more.

"What the _HELL_ are _you_ doin' in the kitchen?" Hellboy exclaimed at Erica.

"Burning your breakfast." she replied, undaunted by the demon's gruff manner.

"Really? _That's_ a surprise," Hellboy said sarcastically.

"What're you making?" Clay asked, looking around at the ingredients spread across the countertops.

"Pancakes. If you want any, you can scrape them out of the trashcan." Erica said dryly. She wiped her flour covered hands on a dishtowel and then absentmindedly threw the dishrag over her shoulder and onto the stove top. Unbeknownst to her, it landed on the one burner the milk hadn't drowned. The dishtowel instantly went up in flames.

"Erica!" Clay shouted, pointing at the stove behind her.

"What?" she asked, unconcerned.

"The dishtowel's on fire!"

Erica spun around to face the two foot high flames on the stove. "Oh man!" she yelled as she grabbed a spoon and flicked the burning towel onto the floor. The violently smoking cloth slid across the linoleum and landed at Clay's feet. The Agent promptly stomped on it until the flames went out.

As the smell of burned cloth and singed linoleum filled the air, Broom dropped his head into his hands in despair. _Never, never again, _the Professor thought, _Not ever!_

Clay and Hellboy stared at Erica.

"See what a hazard I am? This is why I don't cook!" she said. She paused and then continued, a half smile on her face. "At least it wasn't too bad this time."

Just then, the smoke alarm decided to "rain on her parade" so to speak, and went off, triggering the sprinkler system.

"Hey!" shouted Hellboy, jumping as the jets of cold water hit him in the face.

"Come on Red," Clay said, running towards the doors of the kitchen. He didn't have to say it twice. In less than a second the doors swished closed behind the fleeing demon and agent.

Erica, half blinded by the falling water, ran over to a small control panel on the wall and fumbled, trying to figure out how to turn off the sprinkler system.

Broom stood up and limped towards her to help—when the lights went out. Now it was dark _and_ the Professor was being sprayed with water.

"Erica!"

"Sorry! Wrong button!"

There were more sounds of fumbling in the darkness and Broom limped towards them—

BANG!

"Ow," muttered Broom as he backed away from the counter he had walked into.

Suddenly the lights flicked back on and the sprinklers went off. Only a few more drops of water fell from the ceiling and then it was over, leaving the room drenched and the Professor and Erica soaked to the skin.

Professor Broom gazed resignedly at Erica through the fog of water droplets on his glasses.

"Does this mean I can leave now?" Erica asked hopefully. She reached behind her and squeezed some of the water out of her ponytail.

The Professor sighed and rung out the edge of his coat. "Yes, but please remember to turn off the gas next time."

"Hopefully there won't _be_ a next time," Erica said, "I can't cook to save my life."

"Sadly, I think I'm forced to agree with you."

"I hope this means you're giving up on teaching me to cook."

"Until the end of time," Broom assured her, smiling, "Go change your clothes, I'll call a cleaning crew up here and call the cooks back so they can make brunch."

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Professor Broom's Study_

_Evening_

Professor Broom's study was a cheerful, slightly untidy jumble of strange objects, piles of books, and bizarre artifacts. Clippings of newspaper articles and magazines peeked out of desk drawers stuffed full to overflowing. Bookshelves stood against the walls, and all of the shelves were packed with books or scrolls. In fact, books were _everywhere_: they were stacked on the red carpet at the base of the huge golden statue of an angel defeating a demon, some sat on the iron spiral staircase that led to the medical rooms above the study, others covered the Professor's desk, and still more were piled beside the railing around the edge of the second floor of the study. A fire crackled cheerfully in a metal dish over in a corner and the wooden furniture glowed warmly in its light.

Professor Broom sat at his desk reading. The beads of the rosary wrapped around his wrist gently clacked together as he turned the page of the book. Without taking his eyes from the page he picked up his teacup and drank the steaming liquid it contained. He set it down again and pushed his glasses up to rest on the bridge of his nose so he could get a better look at the words on the page he was reading. He shifted slightly in his chair to get comfortable and instead had the opposite effect: his knee twinged painfully. The Professor winced and glanced down at his knee and the cane leaning against the desk. Unlike most people, he truly had aged gracefully, with the exception, perhaps of his knee. But he couldn't help that—there was nothing he could have done to prevent Karl Ruprecht Kroenen from shooting him. The war wound continued to plague him, along with the two people he had picked up the same night.

_They're not a plague, _he corrected himself sternly, _we all have our bad moments. Hellboy's just happen to be very loud. And it's not Erica's fault she incinerates everything she cooks. If anything, it's our idiosyncrasies that bind our strange little family together._

Family. It was something he might never have had if he hadn't gone to Scotland sixty years ago. The Professor smiled warmly, remembering holding the baby demon in his arms for the first time. That night had truly changed his life forever, in so many ways. And he could remember every moment like it had happened only a few hours ago…

The ship rolled and rocked on the storm swept waves as it chugged its way across the ocean towards America. Professor Broom sat quietly in a dimly lit room below deck, his wounded knee throbbing painfully with every heartbeat. The small room that served as a makeshift hospital was crammed with soldiers that had been wounded in the battle at Trondham Abbey, and the overcrowded room stank sickeningly of blood and disinfectant. The Professor closed his eyes as another wave of nausea washed over him, no doubt due to sea sickness. At Trondham Abbey the storm had broken by morning, but apparently the remnants of it had simply moved out to sea, and they were now sailing through it. The Professor turned away from the wounded soldiers in a vain effort to block out what was happening in the room. His heavily bandaged knee protested slightly at the movement, but that pain was nothing compared to the pain of being shot. Or the pain of the ship's doctor removing the bullet.

"Professor Broom?"

Broom opened his eyes and gazed up into the pale face of the ship's stressed looking doctor—the same man that had removed the bullet from his knee a few minutes ago.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get back to you, but—" the man gestured behind him at the wounded soldiers and then continued. "Your prognosis is good. You'll be able to walk, but you'll probably have a limp for the rest of your life."

Broom nodded at the man's words. Honestly, at this point he didn't care if he was going to limp, so long as he could walk. The doctor hurried away to tend to a soldier that needed stitches, and Broom carefully slid out of his chair and got to his feet, leaning precariously on a wooden crutch. Slowly and carefully he maneuvered his way out of the room and through the claustrophobically tight, metal walled corridor outside. The floor pitched and swayed as the ship was rocked by waves, but he eventually made his way through the maze of hallways to his quarters—

"_Scheiße!_" Erica yelled from inside the room.

Startled, the Professor came to a sudden stop in the doorway. As soon as he realized what was going on, he had to struggle to prevent himself from laughing out loud at what he saw. Just inside the doorway, Erica Schwarz was sitting on a bench and cursing vehemently in German as a frightened and clumsy young doctor attempted to change the bandages on her wounds. The doctor's hands were shaking severely—probably a combination of nervousness at being untried in the field and an intense fear of the fierce young German woman sitting in front of him, scowling. The man's eyes widened with shock and fear as another stream of angry curses rapidly tumbled from Erica's lips—he had pulled too hard on the bandages that were stuck to the stab wound on her left shoulder.

"Ahem," Broom cleared his throat to get their attention. They turned towards him and the Professor shot a reproachful look at Erica. "Fräulein, you shouldn't use that kind of language in front of a baby."

Erica glared at him and then glanced across the small room at the newly christened Hellboy. The baby demon was curled up in a dark green blanket on the bottom bunk bed and watching her with wide eyed curiosity. Erica's expression softened a little and she shut her mouth. She stayed quiet as the nervous young doctor finished re-bandaging her shoulder, though if looks could kill, her angry grey eyes would have made the doctor drop dead. Professor Broom watched from the doorway as the anxious young man packed up and hastily exited the room, tripping over himself in his hurry to get out.

"I _hate_ it when stitches get stuck to bandages," she muttered fiercely.

Broom saw her pull up the shoulder of her shirt as he gingerly sat down on the edge of the bottom bunk bed. Hellboy chirped happily and immediately crawled into Broom's lap where he sat smiling and contentedly twitching his tail like a pleased cat.

"I'd almost rather have Kroenen here taking care of me than that babbling incompetent idiot," Erica added angrily.

Broom raised an eyebrow at her words. _Considering Kroenen tried to kill her less than twelve hours ago, one would think she'd want nothing to do with him, _he thought, _But then again, they were close friends._ He pulled his deck of Tarot cards out of his coat pocket and began absentmindedly shuffling them while Hellboy watched with intense interest. "That doctor wasn't an idiot. He, like the rest of the crew that didn't go ashore, is convinced that you're going to murder them all in their beds. "

She snorted derisively and crossed her arms. "Not in this condition I won't." Erica paused for a moment and studied him with her grey eyes. "And I swore to you that I wouldn't hurt anyone. You kept your end of the deal by helping me, and I'll keep mine."

"I believe you, but it's hard for everyone else to trust you. The only thing the Allied Forces ever heard about you was that you were a bloodthirsty murderer. Give them time. Patience is a virtue—"

"No it's not," she interrupted.

The Professor raised his eyebrows at her. "Who said it wasn't?"

"Kroenen," she answered. Then a look of doubt crossed her face, "But he may have been wrong, since he was the one encouraging me to kill people the second they got in my way." Then her doubt disappeared. "Who are you to say what a virtue is and what is not?"

Broom studied her for a moment, absentmindedly letting Hellboy bat at the rosary dangling from his wrist. He really didn't feel like arguing or discussing theology with her at the moment, whichever she was interested in. _Isn't it strange? A day ago, if someone had told me I'd be having a friendly conversation with Erica Schwarz and holding a baby demon, I'd have said they were crazy. Of course, in this profession, strange things happen all the time. That's why it's called the paranormal._ He realized Erica was looking expectantly at him, waiting for him to answer her. "You have to decide for yourself what to believe. That's why it's called 'faith'."

"Deciding what to believe is what got me in trouble in the first place," she muttered, looking at the floor.

Broom wondered what she meant but decided he would figure it out eventually, since they would be working together for the rest of their foreseeable lives. Right now, despite his wounded knee and the fact that he was sitting in a room with a murderous Nazi—_Or should that be ex-Nazi?_ he mused— he felt strangely at peace. It was an exhausted, weary peace, but a contented peace nonetheless. He looked down into the golden, red-flecked eyes of his adopted son and he knew why he was happy.

"You know, for a demon that's probably going to grow up to destroy the world for Rasputin, he's pretty cute."

The Professor glanced up and saw Erica watching Hellboy. She was smiling crookedly because of the 'T' shaped cut on her left cheek, but the smile was a genuine one. Broom smiled back at her. "I knew you'd warm up to him. But he's not going to grow up to be a demon. I'm going to raise him to be a man. Actually, I should say _we_ are going to raise him. Who better to help me then someone that studied demons and other dark creatures?"

As quick as that, Erica's smile disappeared. She rolled her eyes and sighed. "If you insist. I can't imagine I'll have anything better to do with my time."

The Professor laughed, knowing there would be plenty of paranormal occurrences to keep her busy…

Broom opened his eyes and looked down at his desk and the book he had been reading. Beside his book, his teacup was still half full. He picked it up and took a sip, and then grimaced slightly. His tea had gotten cold while he'd been reminiscing.

He set the cup down and glanced towards the left wall of his study. Most of it was an enormous aquarium for another member of his unique little family: Abe Sapien. The fish man was slowly swimming in place, his large dark eyes focused on the book sitting on a stand in the study. He was reading.

_He'll ask me to turn the pages for him soon, _Broom thought, pushing his glasses up his nose with a practiced gesture. He grasped his cane and slowly stood up.

Abe looked up as he finished the last sentence of the page he was reading. Professor Broom was already limping over to turn the pages for him.

"Thank you." the fish man said politely as the Professor reached the first book.

"It's no trouble, Abe," Broom assured him. The old man walked down the line of bookstands, turning the pages. Abe effortlessly pushed himself through the water to the first book and was about to start reading again when he sensed the Professor was still standing there. Abe looked up at him and blinked, his triple set of eyelids quickly clearing his vision.

"You were thinking about Hellboy again." Abe stated, reading his friend's thoughts easily.

"Yes," Broom smiled, a hint of amusement in his voice, "I do that a lot. He's my son."

"And about Erica?"

"I'm worried about her. And Hellboy."

"Because of the news we brought back from Transylvania?" Abe asked.

"Yes." Broom sat down in an overstuffed armchair facing the aquarium. _Worried about that, among other things out of my control, _Broom thought.

Abe heard the Professor's thoughts and attempted to investigate what he meant, but to his surprise Broom had put up mental shields to keep him out. Abe backed out of Broom's mind, respecting his wish for privacy. It would have been easy for Abe to break through the shields, but he wouldn't trespass where his friend didn't want him to go.

The fish man watched as Professor Broom leaned his cane against the arm of the chair.

"About the news you brought back," Broom said, the expression on his face extremely grave, "Are you sure the Thule Occult Society was involved with Volker Maynard?"

Abe nodded as he drifted in the crystal clear waters of his tank. "During the flight back Erica let me look at her memories of the event so I could see what happened. Volker told her he was hired by the Thule Society for the sole purpose of bringing her to them alive. Fortunately the vampire's own desire for revenge got in the way."

"So they're still out there," Broom said quietly, more to himself then to the fish man in front of him.

"So it would seem. Though one must wonder why the remaining members chose now of all times to confirm their existence by their sudden interest in Erica."

"One thing is certain, they had a reason. Having her dead must have been to their advantage somehow. Which suggests that they're going to make a move soon."

Abe put his palm against the glass to steady himself in the water. "The warning Volker gave Erica did suggest that. He said: 'The dead and the undead travel fast, and sometimes you'll find that things you thought long dead are very much alive'. The dead could mean Grigory, and the undead could be Karl Kroenen, based on Erica's description of his…unusual state of being."

"And Erica still doesn't know where the remaining members are or who they are?"

The fish man shook his head. "No. The Ogdru Jahad are still blocking her visions on that subject. But she did speculate that the remaining members might be in Norway. That was where Volker was headed when we left Transylvania because of your call about a werewolf in the area."

Broom sighed. "Numerous sightings of werewolves were reported while you were in Transylvania, all in the city," the Professor said, absentmindedly toying with the top of his cane, "Two people have been killed and another man was severely injured. Fortunately he wasn't bitten. The plan is for us to wait until the next sighting is reported, then to follow the werewolf or werewolves and deal with them accordingly."

"Werewolves? So you came to the same conclusion I did when you saw the information?" Abe asked, his gills fluttering slightly as he breathed.

"Yes. The timing of some of the sightings is too close together for it to be only one werewolf."

"What about Agent Clay going in for his hair implant surgery this afternoon? He won't be able to accompany Hellboy if there's a mission tonight." Abe pointed out.

"I've assigned Agent Moss to temporarily fill in for Agent Clay. Agent Moss has worked with Hellboy before, there shouldn't be any problems. Relatively speaking, werewolves are fairly easy to deal with."

Abe watched the Professor slowly get to his feet, leaning a little more heavily on his cane than normal, and start towards the door of the study.

"Tonight will be busy. I'll have the agents start making preparations for nightfall."

The polished wooden doors swung shut quietly after the Professor, leaving the study silent except for the crackle of the flames in the metal dish. Abe was alone with his thoughts. The fish man idly did a back flip in the water and then glided over to the glass and gazed out at the four books sitting on the stands in front of his tank. He was reading 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, a copy of The Phantom of the Opera written in French, a German history book, and a biography about Mozart. He briefly considered reading, but there was no one to turn the pages for him. He glanced down at a space beside the last bookstand where a small square table with a chessboard built into the top of it was standing with one side pressed against the glass of his tank. All the pieces were standing neatly side by side like ranks of ebony and ivory soldiers facing off across a checkerboard field. The chair at the table sat directly opposite the glass. Sadly it was empty, waiting for a player.

Abe sighed, an action that made his gills flutter and small bubbles stream up through the water. Since the start of October he, Hellboy, Erica, and the other Agents hadn't had much down time to relax. This in turn meant that he hadn't had a really good, challenging chess match against anyone in over a month.

_Actually, _he thought, _I haven't had any chess matches at all, let alone a good one._

At one time he had enjoyed playing chess against a computer when his friends weren't available. With a computer there was the added challenge of not being able to read its thoughts about strategy, like he could with people. On the down side, he couldn't have a good conversation with a computer, and he had begun to see patterns in the games. Software and programming was predictable and hardwired, people were creative and spontaneous.

_Obviously the computer lost when compared to people, _Abe thought.

He still couldn't help but feel he was losing out a little, though. Normally he played against Professor Broom or Erica, because everyone else had gotten tired of him winning ten moves into a game. But they were busy at the moment, which meant he was alone. Which meant he couldn't play chess.

_Which also means you can't stare at Erica's eyes for hours, _a voice said in the back of his head.

_Shut up,_ Abe thought in the mental equivalent of a mutter, _It's not like she even knows I…supposing I even do…_

The fish man blinked a few times, his mind momentarily full of confusion. He gently pushed it aside and then swam down to the bottom of his tank to retrieve his Rubik's Cube. He let himself drift and tumble through the water as he turned the colored blocks and attempted to get closer to the puzzle's solution that had evaded him for two decades. Suddenly he stopped working and glanced up from his sideways position in the water.

_Hellboy's on his way here, _he thought, mentally feeling the red demon approaching.

A moment later one of the highly polished double doors quickly swung open, pushed by Hellboy's stone right hand. The demon looked around and then his gold eyes focused on Abe drifting sideways through the water of his tank.

"Hey, Blue. Have you seen Pop?" Hellboy asked, walking further into the room and glancing at the chairs to see if any of them were occupied.

Abe nodded. "He left a few minutes ago to tell the Agents to get ready for tonight. Why?"

The red demon shrugged a little. "Nothin' important. I just wanted to find out if the rips in my trench coat had been fixed yet. The broken glass from that stain glass window really did a number on the leather."

Abe chuckled. Hellboy glared at him a little.

"What? It's my favorite coat," the demon said defensively, "And I'm gonna need it if we're goin' to pound some werewolf butt tonight." He turned to go.

"Red?" Abe called after him, deciding to seize his chance, "Do you want to play chess?"

"Nah. I swear you cheat—"

"I do not!" Abe said indignantly. He kicked out at the water and turned his body so he was right way up. Hellboy gazed at him, eyebrows raised at the fish man's words. Abe thought for a moment. "I don't cheat. I just…use my abilities to their full extent."

"Translation: cheatin'. Cheatin' is still cheatin', I don't care what you call it. Why don't you play against Erica? She's pretty good."

Abe turned away and sighed as Hellboy opened the door to leave.

"Hey Blue!"

Abe turned his head and saw Hellboy poking his head into the room around the door.

"You know, Erica must be really good at chess. It's amazin', sometimes she even beats you." Hellboy grinned.

Abe froze at the tone in Hellboy's voice, which clearly suggested that he was _letting_ Erica win. Abe tried to speak but choked on his words, unable to think of a clever reply to throw back in denial. Smirking, Hellboy's face disappeared and the door closed behind him.

"Alright, maybe I _do_ let her win sometimes," Abe muttered to himself, "But if I didn't, I wouldn't have anyone else to play against except Professor Broom. That's why none of the agents play chess against me." Abe paused and nodded, pleased with his words. _Yes, that's what I should have told him, it would have been a perfect and very logical comeback, _Abe thought,_ It wouldn't have given anything away about what I think about Erica…not that I think _that_ about her…_

The fish man looked down at the Rubik's Cube in his hand. As always, he was no closer to solving it, and sadly, it didn't look impressed by his reasoning _or_ his comeback.

He also realized it also wasn't going to play chess against him.

He tossed the Rubik's Cube over his shoulder. It drifted down through the water and gently came to rest on the bottom of his tank with a soft 'thud' sound. Abe ignored it and swam up to the top of his tank and got out of the water. Dripping water all over the tile floor, Abe passed by the breathing equipment he used on dry land and headed for the door. He wouldn't be very long so he didn't need it.

_I'll go see what Erica's doing, _he thought, _it's _got_ to be more interesting than swimming in a tank and talking to myself._

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Erica's Room_

_Late Evening_

Erica entered her room and pulled off her trench coat. _It feels good to get that off, _she thought, wiping the sweat off her forehead. She tossed the black leather garment over the back of the chair at her desk before she flopped down on her bed. She felt pleasantly exhausted from practicing her fencing skills and just stared up at the red, gauzy canopy above her bed for a few moments while she cooled down. After a short period of time she sat up and brushed a few hairs out of her face that had escaped from her ponytail.

Unlike most of the rooms at the BPRD, the walls of her room were painted white and the floor was covered in soft tan carpet. There were three doors, one led out into the hallway, another into a closet full of her clothes, and the other led into the bathroom attached to her bedroom. Like most rooms at the BPRD there were no windows. She had a few vaguely Victorian styled furnishings made from a very dark colored wood: a desk and chair, a canopy bed with a headboard and footboard, a bedside table, and a well stocked bookshelf. There was also a small table and two chairs, and the table had a glass chess set on top of it—The Professor had given it to her shortly after he had found out it was her favorite game. The walls were decorated with posters of artwork by famous artists like Leonard da Vinci and Michelangelo. Overall her room was fairly neat, though there was a pile of books on her bedside table that were competing for space with a lamp and digital clock. The books were obviously winning the war for space, as the lamp and clock had been pushed into a corner.

The top of her desk was covered in an avalanche of paperwork that was encroaching on her flat screen computer. Next to the computer a half-disassembled music box lay in several pieces. Erica had been in the process of fixing it for one of the Agent's daughters when she had been interrupted and sent to Transylvania. The pieces were exactly where she had left them, neatly piled beside the music box along with the tools she had been using. _At least I managed to turn some of the skills Kroenen taught me into something good, _Erica thought, remembering how quickly she had picked up Kroenen's expertise with clockwork and gears. She wasn't quite as good as he was, but she could still fix the occasional clock someone would bring her.

Her eyes returned to the desk and the pile of paper held her gaze. The untidy heap consisted of a few half finished reports she had started on yesterday after the post-Transylvania mission meeting. The rest was various paperwork and information from other recent missions. Erica sighed as she viewed the pile.

_I might as well finish those reports,_ she thought, though she made no move to get up from her bed, _Otherwise Manning will nag me about it._

She grimaced at that thought. Saying she didn't get along with Manning was an understatement. Not that she hated him. Really, she wouldn't have such a huge problem with the man if he didn't keep referring to her as a Nazi.

_Ex-Nazi,_ she thought firmly, _I'm an _EX-_Nazi._

She slowly got up and slid into the chair at her desk, and reluctantly picked up a pen. Erica began where she had left off yesterday on the report: how Volker had gotten away, and why they had left Transylvania without killing him.

Erica idly tapped her pen against the top of the desk. _I wonder if Volker is dead yet, _she thought. Then she smiled, _Only one way to find out. _She quickly closed her eyes and blocked out everything around her, focusing on the empty darkness inside her mind. _What happened to Volker?_ She asked, her words silent but still heard in the black void before her closed eyes.

At first nothing happened, but then a pale orange glow appeared. It was a fireplace filled with a roaring fire. The stone floor in front of it was scattered with burning embers and a shadowy form. It was a body. _Who is it?_ She wondered. But instead of getting an answer, the body became blurry and even more unidentifiable, and then she felt a horrible wrenching sensation, like someone had yanked roughly on her arm—then she saw a pair of long knives lying on a stone floor, glimmering faintly as a women's pale hand with long red nails reached for them—

"Ow!" Erica yelped as an invisible force slammed into her face, temporarily blinding her. The hand and blades disappeared and Erica reeled through the darkness from the force of the blow. _This isn't supposed to happen, _she thought, _Something's blocking me from seeing what happened to Volker. Not that being blocked is exactly unusual now. _Erica focused again and concentrated on remembering what Volker had looked like. With this picture clear in her mind, she searched for what had happened to him—

—Volker's face appeared before her, his features contorted with rage and his electric blue eyes burning with insanity—a set of metal spikes fell from a doorway—Volker screamed—a shadowy hand held a wooden stake—Volker screamed as he disintegrated, the wooden stake protruding from his chest—a shadowy form stood triumphantly over the vampire's ashes— Erica tried to focus on who the form was—

SLAM!

Something as hard and flat as a wall crashed into her body, knocking her backwards. Stunned, she could barely concentrate on her surroundings as she fell and fell and fell. The space around her was black and empty. The darkness was as cold as ice. Somewhere in the distance of the infinite darkness, she thought she heard a roaring noise.

She forced her eyes open. She was back in her room.

_Well, that went well, _she thought sarcastically, _But at least I know Volker is dead._ She picked up her pen and added the information to the report. _As for who killed him, I have a good guess, even if something is preventing me from knowing for sure: Karl Kroenen and Ilsa Haupstien._

Unfortunately, there was no way for her to confirm her suspicions that Ilsa and Kroenen were responsible for the vampire's death. Ever since the night she had betrayed the Nazis she had been unable to use her visions to find out anything about Ilsa, Kroenen, or Grigory Rasputin. Whenever she tried to look into the future or the present to see what they were doing all she got was shadows or occasionally a brief glimpse of their faces. But the fact that she saw their faces was as much proof as she needed to know that Kroenen and Ilsa were still alive somewhere—but that was _all_ she knew about them. Erica was sure, though, that somewhere in the world Kroenen and Ilsa were doing everything in their power to bring their Master back. It was like instinct, she could feel it in her blood—probably due to the bond she shared with Ilsa and Kroenen.

_Either Ilsa and Kroenen have found some way to inhibit my abilities—and that's possible, since they were the ones who taught me how to use my visions in the first place_—_or the Ogdru Jahad are preventing me from using them, _she thought. The last option was the most plausible. Erica knew the Ogdru Jahad were more than capable of it, and they had a good reason to do it. When she had betrayed the Thule Occult Society and the Nazis she had also betrayed the Seven Gods of Chaos. As a traitor she should have been sacrificed to them or at least killed—but she had escaped with her life. And because she had escaped, it was likely that the Ogdru Jahad were very interested in preventing her from spying on the activities of their remaining loyal servants. Besides that, she knew they at least had _something_ to do with blocking her: she recognized the roaring noise she had just heard. It was the Seven Gods of Chaos. And they were furious.

Not that that was unusual. They had been angry with her ever since she'd betrayed them.

She shivered violently and tried to focus on the paperwork in front of her. As a matter of principal she tried not to think about what would happen to her if Ilsa and Kroenen ever found her, let alone Grigory Rasputin. And this was likely to happen sometime in the near future as the incident with Volker had proved.

Erica shoved that thought to the farthest corner of her mind and continued working on the report, absentmindedly toying with the silver crucifix hanging from her necklace while she wrote.

"Erica?" a cool, familiar voice suddenly broke the silence.

Erica jumped a little and turned around. Abe was standing in the doorway, one webbed hand still resting gently on the doorknob.

"Hi, Blue," she smiled warmly at him. Her smile was a bit crooked from the 'T' shaped scar on her left cheek. "Come in."

The fish man hesitated in the doorway, his gills fluttering slightly. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" he asked.

"Just heaps of paperwork," she said, indicating her desk with a gesture of mock despair, "And believe me, I'm glad to have the distraction."

Abe walked further into her room and gently pushed the door closed behind him. "Did you look at the information about the werewolf yet?" he asked.

"I glanced at it. Why?"

"You really should take a closer look at it," the fish man said as he sat down at the small table. He picked up one of the glass chess pieces and gazed at it. "I don't think any of us are going to get any sleep tonight."

"That should be fun. There's nothing like being chased through dark alleys by something that slobbers and has pointy teeth," she joked.

Abe didn't laugh. "Perhaps you should say 'things'. I reviewed the reports of the werewolf sightings and the three attacks. Based on the reported times and locations, the werewolf is either extremely fast, or there's more than one."

"What makes you think that?"

"After one of the attacks, a police officer reported seeing a man sized dog racing across the rooftops of some of the buildings in the city. The police officer saw that 'dog' on the opposite side of the city from the attack, and yet reported seeing it less than two or three minutes after the attack occurred."

"So there are two of them?" Erica asked as she turned to her computer and brought up the file on the werewolf sightings and attacks.

The fish man nodded. "Maybe more," he added, "based on the number of sightings. A pack of werewolves is more likely to be seen than one, unless of course that one werewolf simply doesn't care about being seen."

"And at least one of them is attacking people. Great." Erica said as she scrolled down the page on the werewolf attacks and came across the gory pictures of two mangled bodies. Both had huge, obviously canine, teeth marks all over the skin. She turned around to face Abe. "Perfect opportunity for Hellboy to get some target practice in. You wouldn't _believe_ how bad his aim was when he was shooting at Volker."

"Speaking of Volker, Erica, is he—?"

"He's dead, Kroenen staked him. At least, I'm pretty sure it was Kroenen," she said, frowning slightly, "It's just so frustrating that the Ogdru Jahad are blocking me."

"But at least you know that means Kroenen and Ilsa are definitely up to something. Otherwise the Ogdru Jahad would have nothing to hide."

"True. I'm just worried about what it is they're _doing_." She said, biting her lip.

"Don't be. There's no point in worrying about something you have no control over. Besides, if I were you, I'd be getting ready for tonight."

"What time are we leaving?" Erica asked. She stood up and headed over to the table where Abe was sitting.

The fish man shrugged. "We leave as soon as another report of a sighting comes in."

"Which means it'll probably be some ungodly hour of the night, if it's tonight at all," Erica muttered, crossing her arms, "October is _not_ a good month for us to get any sleep."

"Speaking of which, how much sleep have you gotten since we've been back?" Abe asked, gazing levelly at her like he was seeing into her mind.

"A couple hours," she admitted, knowing it was pointless to lie, "Plus a few more during the flight back."

"You need your rest."

Erica smiled and rolled her eyes a little. "Abe, you sound like my mother. Why did you come in here anyway? I know it wasn't just to tell me to go to bed. Or to play with my chess pieces."

The fish man quickly put down the glass chess piece he had been idly toying with. His gills flushed to a darker orange-red color. "Oh, I just wanted to be certain you were prepared for tonight."

"I'm always prepared," Erica said. She put one foot up on the chair in front of her and pulled a long blade from inside her boot. The dagger's lethal edge glimmered in the light. She put the blade back in her boot. "I'm never unarmed."

"That's not what I meant by being prepared," Abe said. He stood up. "If you're sleep deprived it won't matter how well armed you are."

"Abe—" she started to say.

He stopped her with a raised palm. "I'll inform the others that Volker is dead. Get some sleep. I'll wake you up providing the alarms don't do it for me."

"Alright," she sighed, "I should have known it would be pointless to argue with you."

Abe smiled at her and nodded as he started for the door. "Good night." He said. A moment later the door closed silently behind him and Erica was alone.

_I can't believe that just happened. I feel like a kid. But he had good intentions, and he's right, I am tired._

Erica turned off her computer screen and kicked off her boots. She changed into a pair of baggy dark blue pajama pants and then pulled off her black T-shirt. She winced as the fabric scraped along the deep scratches on her right arm, tearing off some of the scabs.

"Ow," Erica muttered, examining the scratches from Volker's long nails, "Damn vampire. Then again, I didn't exactly expect him to stand still while I burned his face."

She glanced around, trying to find the black tank top she wore with her pajama pants. Unable to find it in her room, she wandered into her bathroom and found it lying on the floor. _Exactly where I left it,_ she thought. She picked it up and pulled it over her head. She glanced at herself in the mirror. Two silvery white scars glimmered on her skin, both of them located near her heart. One was a bullet scar from an assassin that had shot her during WWII. The other was the scar that Kroenen's blade had left sixty years ago. The long ragged wound had healed and turned into a death line in white and silver that was located unnervingly close to her heart.

Yawning, she took her hair out of her ponytail and ran her left hand through her long brown hair, glancing at the crescent shaped scar on the inside of her upper left arm—the scar that had caught Kroenen and Ilsa's attention and let them know who she was all those years ago. _Who would've thought one scar could cause so much trouble?_ She thought. Erica quickly dismissed the thought and wandered out into her room again. She picked up a dagger and sheath sitting on her bedside table and strapped it onto her left wrist as she did every night. It never hurt to be prepared.

Still yawning, she turned off the lights and flopped down on her bed and lay there, staring up at the red canopy above her bed. _I wonder if I should use my visions to see if I'll be woken up later, _she mused, _Nah. I'm tired, and it won't make a difference if I know anyway. If there's trouble, I'll be awakened by those sirens. But I better _not_ be…_

XXXXX

_Moldavia_

_An Airfield_

_Late evening_

Kroenen stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac at the airport. The sky overhead was overcast and the clouds had the strange blue-grey color to them that meant it was going to start snowing soon. A cold biting wind blew down from the towering, snow covered mountains in the west, sweeping across the open airfield and whistling sharply as it gusted between the neat rows of airplanes. The tall brown grass around the edges of the tarmac was dusted with crystalline snow, and the brown stalks bent and waved, adding to the cold, desolate mood of the place. Kroenen was pleased to see that the small airport was deserted—as had been promised them.

Despite his black leather trench coat the assassin shivered a little, enjoying the frosty feel in the air. It felt good to be somewhere other than Norway and to be looking at scenery that was different than the cold, grey sea off the coast of Norway. _It feels good to simply be moving forward and to be doing something, _Kroenen thought.

He heard boots tapping against the metal stairs that led down from the plane as their owner descended to the ground. A moment later Ilsa was beside him, her cold beauty and black clothing perfectly reflecting the mood of the weather.

"I hope you both enjoyed the ride," a man's voice called to them from inside the plane. A moment later, the man that had spoken—the pilot—appeared at the top of the stairs carrying the two large black backpacks that were Kroenen and Ilsa's luggage.

"Quite." Ilsa said, her words exact and clipped. Kroenen knew she wanted to get moving just as bad, if not worse, than he did.

"I suppose you're here for skiing or some other winter sport," the pilot said, obviously trying to make conversation. He walked down the steps carrying the luggage. "There's not much else to do in this part of Moldavia. Though I wouldn't recommend skiing, it looks like we're going to get some snow, and the mountains are going to be inaccessible unless you have a guide."

"We know. Do you know where we could find one?" Ilsa asked.

The pilot set down the two backpacks and scratched his head. "Erm, you could always try some of the taverns and inns close to the bottom of the mountains. A lot of the peasant type folk that know the area like to go there for drinks during the evenings."

"Danke." Ilsa smiled sweetly at the pilot and then turned away and picked up her backpack.

"What'd you say?" the pilot asked, looking confused, "You know, if you don't mind my saying, you two are certainly the strangest pair of tourists I've ever seen. I mean, how many people schedule last minute flights to Moldavia, of all places? And no offense intended of course, sir, but your mask is sorta odd. Not that I'm complaining. You paid me well enough." The pilot smiled and winked at them.

Kroenen glanced at Ilsa. He could tell that the pilot's mindless prattle was irritating her as much as it was irritating him. He turned to the pilot, who was standing very close to him.

"We don't have time for this. Besides, I don't like to leave witnesses." Kroenen said as he reached inside his trench coat. His gloved hands grasped the hilts of his baton swords.

"What—?"

The pilot barely had time to speak before Kroenen drew his baton swords and slit the man's throat with surgical precision. The pilot's body swayed and then collapsed, his limbs splayed haphazardly across the blacktopped runway. Hot, crimson blood gushed from the gaping wound in his neck and pooled on the ground, steaming in the cold air.

Suddenly, snow started to fall.

Ilsa smiled. "Well done. We should get moving if we want to reach the mountains before nightfall. Our Master is waiting for us."

Kroenen nodded and glanced at the base of the blue-grey mountains. Already he could see the clustered, tiny yellow glows of lights shining through windows. The lights were coming from a small town.

He heard the soft click of jackboots against the asphalt and saw Ilsa striding away, heading for a long black car parked on the dirt road leading from the runway. He recognized the license plate number. _That's the car she arranged for us, _he thought.

A cold blast of wind swirled the falling snow against the assassin's mask. He wiped off his swords in the grass and sheathed them before shouldering his backpack and following Ilsa towards the long black car. Instead of walking around the pilot's bloody remains, he simply stepped over the dead man without a single glance in his direction.

XXXXX

_Moldavia_

_A Tavern_

_Late Evening_

The dimly lit, ancient wooden tavern was completely untouched by modern times. It was as if the late 1800's had come and never left. The tavern was full of the clamor of people talking and the clink of glasses and dishes as the waiters hurried back and forth to serve the customers. All the tables were full of weathered, tough looking peasants, and a group of men sat at the bar drinking and swapping stories. Two young men, cheered on by their friends, were having a drinking contest and both looked ready to pass out. A roaring fire chased away the winter chill and dispelled some of the shadows in the room that the oil lamps couldn't brighten. The row of windows along the front of the tavern was frosted with snow and condensation. Suddenly the wooden door banged open in a gust of bitterly cold wind, and someone hurried over to shut it again against the night and swirling snow.

The noise, however, did not disturb a group of people sitting in a dark corner beside the stone fireplace.

A severely weather beaten man somewhere in his forties sat on one side of the table, wrapped in a leather and fur coat and drinking a glass of vodka. His name was Razvan Arcos. He gazed at the two strange people sitting across from him. So strange, in fact, that if he didn't know better, he'd have thought he was drunk again. But he knew he wasn't. He'd barely taken a sip of the vodka he'd bought before the pair had shown up at the tavern and gone around asking people questions. And the answers must have led to him, because the two had sat down across from him. Razvan just hoped that whatever they wanted, that he wasn't in trouble.

He eyed the pair up. One was a beautiful blond haired woman dressed in black pants, boots, and a black jacket edged with black fur. Her blood red nails glittered in the firelight and her blue eyes were unusually bright and intense and had an icy coldness about them. Her haughty air showed that she was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. Her companion was just as strange, if not more enigmatic. The man—at least Razvan assumed it was a man—was dressed head to foot in black and wore a black cloak with a deep hood that hid his face completely, though an eerie glint occasionally flashed from within the depths of the hood. Razvan thought, with a shiver, that the glint resembled firelight reflecting off glass. But no, it had to be the light shining on the man's eyes. The hooded man sat in the shadows, away from the light of the tavern. Razvan could clearly hear the man's raspy breathing and a strange ticking noise, like the man was carrying a huge watch.

"What do you want?" Razvan finally asked in heavily accented English.

"We're looking for a peasant guide that knows these mountains better than anyone else." the woman said.

"If you're tourists you're in the wrong place." he said harshly, trying to get them to leave.

"We're not tourists. We're looking for a guide that knows the Old Places in the mountains."

Razvan couldn't stop his eyes from widening at the woman's words. Everyone that lived and worked at the base of the mountains knew about the Old Places—everyone had heard ghost stories about them—but very few people actually _knew_ where the Old Places were located, high up in the mountains. Razvan happened to be one of the few. But he knew local rumors and stories never left the town, so it came as a surprise that a pair of foreigners had heard of the Old Places. "How do you know about them?"

"So you _do_ know where they are." the woman observed.

"Yes." Razvan said hesitatingly.

"I thought so," the woman said with a knowing look, "My friend and I would like to hire you as our guide to take us to one of them."

"Hire me? You speak English. I won't take payment in American money. It's useless here." Razvan said dismissively. He took a large gulp from his glass of vodka.

"I know. That's why we're going to pay you in gold."

"In what?" Razvan exclaimed, narrowly escaping spraying alcohol across the table. Suddenly interested, he sat his glass down and leaned forward, "How much?"

The woman smiled and her ice blue eyes glinted. She gestured at her cloaked and hooded companion, who reached a gloved hand into his coat and pulled out two small gold ingots about the size of a man's thumb. "You will get your gold when we arrive at our destination." the cloaked man said, his voice stern.

"When do you want to leave?" Razvan asked eagerly.

The woman's smile widened. "Tomorrow morning, before daybreak. We must reach our destination before nightfall."

Razvan hesitated and glanced out the tavern's frosted windows at the steadily falling snow. "But what about the snow storm?"

"It will slow down." the woman said confidently, as if she thought the weather would obey her orders.

"Then we leave in the morning," Razvan agreed, "Before daybreak. But which of the Old Places do you want to go to?"

"We have a map, we just need you to guide us there," the woman said, pulling an ancient leather book from inside her coat.

"Then we have a deal!" Razvan said, smiling. He tossed back the rest of his vodka and banged his glass down on the table. He didn't care why the two strangers wanted to go to one of the Old Places, so long as they got there and he got his gold.

Little did he know that along with his gold, he would also get his death.

Author's Notes: Whew! Now _that_ was a long chapter! I hope you all liked the flashback from Broom's POV and my solution for why Abe doesn't know that Professor Broom is sick. Did you all notice the implied romance? I was worried it wasn't clear enough, since I was trying to keep Abe in character. The next chapter will be about, you guessed it! Fighting some—_very_ unconventional—werewolves. Also, the next chapter might have another short bit with Kroenen and Ilsa in it, providing the werewolves don't take up too much space.


	7. Unconventional Werewolves

**Chapter 7: Unconventional Werewolves**

Disclaimer: Sadly, the Hellboy characters and movie plot do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Richard, Agatha, Luke, the other werewolves, and the plot that isn't from the movie is mine.

Author's Notes: I wrote a lot of humor into this chapter in return for all the wonderful, encouraging reviews I received! But with a title like Unconventional Werewolves, you guessed that it'd be funny, right? There's also a fight scene, a tribute to my wonderful reviewers who like them so much! Plus the label does say action/adventure, does it not? What would action/adventure be without fight scenes? There's also a bit of romance, but I'll let you discover for yourself which couples it is! German to English translations: 'Mein Gott' is My God, 'Ja' is yes, 'Danke' is thank you, and 'Nein' is no. Anything else is cursing! Enjoy the chapter!

**Mab:** A new reviewer! Woohoo! And I definitely think it's going to be a love hate relationship, I wouldn't expect anything less from the people involved.

**The Common Wind Deity:** Another long chapter for you! And more implied romance. Poor Abe…

**musicamode:** Yay! Two reviews! Thanks, I worked really hard to make sure I portrayed Abe correctly.

**iluvrocknroll: **Oh, I think she'll like sushi! How could anyone resist that fishstick? Rasputin's return should be in the next chapter, or the one after that.

**Gestalt: **Poor fishy, no, he has no idea his competition is Kroenen. But he'll be finding out soon-ish. And I think I see that turning ugly _really_ fast. A jealous Kroenen is a murderous Kroenen, and that never means anything good.

**amyltrer:** Great to know you liked the cooking humor, it was tons o' fun to write! And yes, I did do research. I specifically wanted a Romanian name, since it fitted the setting. And of course Kroenen and Ilsa are in this chapter, it wouldn't be the same without them!

"He who does not live dangerously does not live at all."—Joseph McCarthy

"Things are not always what they seem."—Mandrake

"Oh, treacherous night! thou lendest thy ready veil to every treason, and teeming mischief's beneath thy shade."—Aaron Hill

_The BPRD_

_Erica's Room_

_Night_

Erica was floating blissfully through a dreamless sleep, quite happy in the serene black void. Though she was sleeping she was vaguely aware of her body lying in bed, snuggled into the sheets that were wrapped around her. She was warm and comfy and everything was peaceful and _wonderful_—

EERRRNNNNT! EERRRNNNNTTT!

The raucous shrieking of sirens shattered her sleep with a noise equivalent to a sixteen wheeler and a herd of trumpeting elephants crashing through a large glass window.

Jolted awake so fast she was disoriented, Erica lay on her back with her heart racing a mile a minute and her eyes blinded by painfully bright flashes of red light.

"Mein Gott," Erica moaned, squeezing her eyes shut, "Exactly _not_ what the Doctor ordered." She pulled the blankets over her head and pushed her face into her pillow in a futile attempt to block out the noise and flashing lights. However, she also knew there was no way she would be getting back to sleep.

EERRRNNNNT! EERRRNNNNTTT!

As if to prove her right the alarms got louder, going from loud to deafening in the space of thirty seconds. Erica pushed the blankets down and rolled over so she could see her alarm clock. The glowing green numbers told her it was eleven o'clock at night. She'd been asleep for only three hours. Erica sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, glaring at the flashing lights and the alarm speakers located in a corner of the ceiling.

"That is one _hell_ of an alarm clock," she muttered as she got up and staggered in the direction of her closet.

CRASH!

"_Scheiße!_ Stupid chair!" Erica muttered fiercely. She pushed her desk chair aside and continued stumbling around in the dark, the blaring alarms assaulting her ears. And it didn't help that it was completely dark except for the intermittent flashes of light. She hissed with surprise as her bare feet came in contact with the cold tile of the bathroom floor. She backed up until she was on carpet and then reached out for the wall and groped around for the light switch located near the bathroom door. _Ah ha! _Erica thought triumphantly as her fingers seized the switch. She flipped it on, flooding her room with light. She squinted for a moment and then threw open the door of her closet and hastily yanked some clothes off their hangers. Less then a minute later she had changed out of her pajamas and was wearing her typical black pants, black T-shirt, and jackboots. She grabbed a hair tie and her baton swords, and then retrieved her black leather trench coat from the back of her desk chair before she ran out the door and into the hallway.

If possible the sirens were even louder out in the corridors. She winced as the screeching alarms echoed off the walls and the waves of sound pounded against her eardrums. _If this continues I see a headache coming on in the not so distant future,_ she thought as she sprinted down the hall. She took the elevator up to the ground floor and stepped off into a wide corridor buzzing with activity. A constant stream of agents were emerging from doorways or stepping off other elevators. All of them were going the same place she was: the BPRD's garage. As she got closer to the garage the corridor became nearly choked with agents, some of which were still putting on jackets or hopping around on one foot as they pulled their shoes on.

At the end of the corridor a pair of huge industrial doors made of thick steel were standing wide open, giving a clear view of the enormous concrete and steel room beyond, which resembled an aircraft hanger more then a garage. Several of the agent's black cars were neatly spaced out across the floor near the metal garage doors, but Erica headed towards the primary mode of transportation she shared with Hellboy and Abe: a garbage truck. The back of the truck was open, showing the remodeled, high tech interior. Abe was already inside, busily checking his respirator. Like everyone else he wasn't fully dressed. He was wearing a pair of black pants and nothing else. Erica glanced at his thin, muscular frame, his blue skin was still shiny with drops of water. _He looks pretty good,_ she thought, smiling, _probably from all that swimming._ Then she blushed and mentally smacked herself, realizing Abe might have overheard her thoughts.

"Hey, Blue," Erica called as she walked up the short metal ramp and into the truck.

Abe looked up and smiled. "Did you sleep well?" he asked. Erica heard a hint of amusement in his voice and hoped that it had nothing to do with eavesdropping on her thoughts.

"Ja, at least until I was awakened by a sound like a bomb going off. Are you sure it's impossible to turn the volume down on those alarms?"

Abe nodded. "The intent _is_ to get your attention," he pointed out.

"Yeah, well maybe I'll get someone's attention if I take one apart and leave the pieces scattered across Manning's desk. Although that probably wouldn't go over well," Erica added as an afterthought.

She dropped her leather trench coat on top of a crate of equipment and quickly pulled her hair back in a ponytail. Abe returned to working on his respirator. A moment later Professor Broom appeared in the garage, followed by Hellboy, who was fully dressed—including his favorite brown leather trench coat. He was also smoking a cigar.

"Hey sleepyhead!" Erica greeted him as he came closer. Hellboy only grunted in reply. "Glad to see you finally got your tailed butt out of bed," Erica continued, "Did Clay have to drag you?"

Hellboy stopped at the bottom of the ramp and tapped his cigar, knocking ash onto the concrete floor. "Nah. Clay isn't here. He's on leave, or somethin'. Agent Moss is my _nanny_ until he gets back." Hellboy stomped his way up the ramp and grinned at her as he passed. "Oh, by the way E, those pillow lines on your face are _really_ attractive."

"Danke," she said sarcastically. She instinctively touched her face and felt the set of shallow dents impressed into her cheek and forehead. _Oh well, they'll fade, _she thought. She started unbuckling the dagger she had put around her wrist before she went to sleep.

Professor Broom limped up the ramp, leaning on his cane. Behind him the activity in the garage had hit its highpoint; agents were gearing up and heading towards their vehicles.

"So, what've we got?" Hellboy asked. He plopped down on a nearby crate, producing a creaking sound as the wood struggled to hold his weight. The demon ignored it.

"Werewolves, what else?" Erica said as she strapped on the leather sheaths that held her baton swords to her thighs.

"Thank you captain obvious," Hellboy grunted.

Professor Broom cleared his throat. "Our liaison in the police force contacted us after two werewolves were seen attacking a group of people in a city park. The police fired and the werewolves fled unharmed, leaving six wounded and two dead."

"So I was right about there being more than one," Abe mused.

"There might be more than that," Broom warned, "And we don't know what their motive is. They may just be interested in killing for the sake of killing."

"Did anyone survive being bitten?" Erica asked. As cruel as it sounded, she hoped not. Adjusting to life as a werewolf wasn't easy, and it drove some people to insanity.

"The survivors have been quarantined for testing," Broom replied. He glanced at Abe, still hard at work on his respirator, and quickly turned and descended the ramp without a word to the fish man.

Beneath Erica's feet the truck shuddered to life as the engine started up. As two agents started to close the garbage truck's door, she saw Professor Broom get into one of the agent's black cars. A moment later the door closed with a metallic thud and the garbage truck lurched into motion.

"Here we go," Hellboy muttered. He got up and stomped over to the box that held his huge gun. He took it out and idly began searching through a box of bullets. Erica buckled on a utility belt, checked the locator on it, and then made sure her own handgun was in its black leather holster. She knew there were very few people who had a chance against her in hand-to-hand combat. However, with werewolves she preferred a gun because it was less risky and she had no intention of spending the rest of her life as a lycanthrope. _With werewolves the further away you are when you try to kill them, the better, _she thought.

"Hey, E! Catch!" Hellboy called.

Erica looked up just in time to catch a small plastic pack. She looked down at it. The label read: Silver Bullets.

"Thanks," she said. She immediately loaded them into her handgun.

"Make sure you take extras," Abe said.

"I've got silver daggers, too," Erica replied, gesturing to the blades on her belt. She pulled on her trench coat, smiling as the familiar scent of the black leather filled her nose.

Hellboy rolled aside the thick metal door that covered the one way mirror window. The flashing red and white lights of police cars could already be spotted in the distance.

_It's going to be one hell of a night, _Erica thought.

XXXXX

_The City's Alleys_

_Night_

Hellboy stomped through a back alley. Behind him he could hear footsteps—Agent Moss was running to keep up with him. The red demon stopped to allow the agent a chance to catch up, and to allow himself a chance to take in his surroundings.

Once everyone had arrived at the park they had found werewolf tracks leading off in two directions, so at Hellboy's suggestion they had spilt up. Abe and Erica had followed one set of tracks, and Hellboy and Agent Moss had followed the other. Professor Broom and the other agents had stayed behind to secure the scene of the attack, which had drawn a large crowd that had come to stare at the two mutilated, dead bodies.

Hellboy took a drag on his cigar, making the end glow bright red in the darkness, and then blew a stream of curling smoke into the pleasantly chilly autumn air. Agent Moss appeared beside him, breathing hard.

"Outta shape?" Hellboy asked, raising an eyebrow at the agent.

"No. It's that you just led me over and around every possible obstacle in these alleys," the agent said accusingly, glaring a little, "I'd almost think you were trying to get rid of me."

"Hey, we're trackin' a werewolf. They don't move like us," Hellboy said, inspecting the deep claw marks in a brick wall. A tuft of fur clung to the rough brick. _Definitely a werewolf,_ Hellboy thought. "Come on, let's go," he said, seeing a wet werewolf footprint near a puddle of water.

Agent Moss sighed reluctantly and followed the demon who was already far ahead of him.

XXXXX

_The City_

_A Neighborhood_

_Night_

Abe walked down the sidewalk, his bare hand held parallel to the ground as he tracked the werewolf. His blue skin shone in the pale light of the full moon, but the long coat and felt hat he was wearing prevented him from feeling like a beacon. They also conveniently hid his respirator and provided a protective layer against the cold fall air. The blue light of his locator cast a faint glow on the sidewalk near his feet.

Beside him Erica was searching the ground for any hints that a werewolf had been through the area. Abe sighed, breathing a stream of water out through his gills. They had lost the physical trail a quarter of a mile ago, but he could sense the presence of a nearby werewolf—a presence which was now dangerously strong.

"Erica, we're very close," Abe warned her.

She didn't reply but he heard the soft sound of a handgun being removed from a leather holster.

Abe studied the area. They were in a clean, tree filled little neighborhood that seemed timeless. The old Victorian homes were well cared for and huge trees in all their autumn glory grew along the charming leaf littered sidewalk. He mentally scanned the homes, searching for the tell tale signature of a werewolf. Then he saw him.

A few houses away a tall, skinny old man wearing a pale grey suit was standing in front of a cute two story brick house. The innocent looking scene was the epitome of deception. Abe could feel the man was a werewolf, it was streaming off the old man with all the raging force of a gushing waterfall. It was also just as obvious from the man's thoughts that he wanted someone dead.

"That's him," Abe said, gesturing at the old man.

Erica nodded and then indicated that they could sneak up on the man by hiding behind the line of cars parked along the street. A moment later Abe was silently creeping along behind the cars on all fours. _Rotten eggs and the safety of mankind,_ he thought, reassuring himself, _It's all for rotten eggs and the safety of mankind—_

A stomach turning sound stopped Abe in his tracks. _Oh no, _he thought, listening to the sickening sound of skin stretching and bones popping and rearranging themselves. He cautiously peered around the back of the car just in time to see the old man finish transforming into a werewolf with silver-grey fur. The werewolf turned his head skyward as if to howl, but strangely, he remained silent. Almost like he might have heard them.

"Let's do this quickly," Erica murmured, her eyes locked on the werewolf from her position at the front of the car.

The creature's ears flicked slightly and his huge head turned to look up the street—

_Go!_ Abe thought at Erica.

He jumped out from behind the car. The werewolf spun around to face him, eyes wide with surprise to see him standing on the sidewalk. There was a metallic click as Erica cocked her gun—the creature whipped around to face her, turning so quickly that one of his oversized paws slammed into Abe's chest and sent him flying.

Abe sailed over the cars and crashed into the unforgiving blacktopped road. He didn't know whether the blow had been deliberate or not, but regardless, it had hurt. He was just starting to get to his feet—

HONK!

Abe ignored the loud noise and was surprised to see the sudden sound had startled the werewolf. The creature swiveled to face the street, knocking Erica over. The force of the blow swept Erica off her feet and sent her crashing into a nearby telephone pole with a bone jarring impact. Abe felt a mental explosion of her pain as she slumped to the ground.

_HONK! HONK!_

Abe turned towards the deafening, insistent noise and was instantly blinded by a pair of bright lights. _It's a truck!_ The fish man thought with horror. Abe threw himself out of the way just in time. As he sat up again he saw the truck was still racing down the street. The driver hadn't bothered to slow down let alone stop, but it was likely that had something to do with the werewolf on the sidewalk. _The werewolf!_ Abe leapt to his feet, expecting the creature to be behind him. Instead the fish man was met with a scene that made his blood run cold. Erica was just sitting up and the werewolf was standing over her, poised to attack. And Erica's gun was lying on the sidewalk several feet away from her. _Oh no, _Abe thought, horrified. He sprinted towards her.

Dazedly, Erica looked up as she felt a huge shadow fell over her. She gasped. The werewolf towered above her, all seven feet of him covered in muscles and silver-grey fur. His deep blue eyes gleamed horribly as he leaned down over her, his jaws slavering and his mouth hanging open as if to let her count all of his lethally sharp teeth. Erica scrambled to retrieve her gun—a paw crashed into the ground, narrowly avoiding crushing her outstretched hand. The werewolf leaned down farther and licked his thin, black lips as Erica flattened herself against the pavement in a useless effort to get away. Her heart banged loudly against her rib cage as fear raced through her body. She swallowed thickly and shuddered, feeling his hot, steamy breath on her skin as his muzzle came within six inches of her face. She reached for one of the silver daggers on her belt—A huge forearm reached towards her and she could only watch in horror as five gleaming, curved claws wrapped around her wrist. _I hope he just kills me and gets it over with, _she thought, feeling the werewolf tug on her wrist—

"Oh, do forgive me, Miss, I didn't mean to knock you over like that! I simply didn't see you there," the werewolf said apologetically.

Abe froze at the werewolf's words; his finger hesitated as it just barely touched the trigger of his gun. He stared at the werewolf, hardly daring to breathe. He could tell Erica was just as shocked as he was.

Stunned, Erica stared up at the huge furry face barely inches from her head. The werewolf blinked and then self-consciously wiped a paw across his lips to get rid of the saliva dripping from his mouth.

"So sorry about my manners. Normally they're quite impeccable, but transforming does take it out of one for a bit," the werewolf said. He backed up to give her some space and then tugged on her wrist again. "Would you like me to help you up?" the creature asked.

Erica stared at the werewolf mistrustfully. "You're not going to kill me?" she asked.

"Heavens above! I'd _never_ do something like that! Besides the ethical complications it takes too long to get the blood out of my fur. It mats it frightfully. Of course I can only say that from my experience of eating rabbits, but still!"

Abe rushed over as Erica let the werewolf pull her to her feet. As soon as the werewolf let go of her she picked up her gun and eyed the creature distrustfully.

"I hope I didn't scare you two," the werewolf said politely. He blinked anxiously at them with concern written all over his aged features. Abe realized the werewolf was being sincere. He really didn't _want_ to hurt them.

"Erica, he's telling the truth," Abe said, coming up behind her.

To his surprise Erica turned around and hugged him. The fish man stiffened for a moment and then relaxed, secretly enjoying the moment more than he knew he probably should have. _She was scared, _he sternly reprimanded himself, _she's just relieved she isn't dead, that's all it is. Nothing more. And don't be enjoying it because you don't think about her that way._

Abe thoughts were interrupted as Erica pulled away. The fish man looked at her out of the corner of his large dark eyes, wishing she hadn't let go. _But why would you wish that? That hug was nothing. And you have work to do!_ he scolded himself. Abe turned back to the grey werewolf, who was standing in front of him wringing his paws and looking pathetically upset.

"Things like this wouldn't happen if I would do what Agatha told me," the werewolf muttered. He ran his claws through the fur around his neck as if searching for something. A moment later his claws fastened on a thin silver chain that had a delicate silver object hanging from it. The werewolf unfolded the object, which Abe suddenly realized was a pair of glasses, and perched the half moon spectacles on his muzzle. _That's something you don't see everyday, _Abe thought.

"As I was saying, I didn't see you there. I had no idea you were on the sidewalk," the silver werewolf continued, "Forgive an old—ah, _man_—his faults," the werewolf said, "I'm just so clumsy these days—and you came out of the dark so unexpectedly—"

"_Richard!_" a woman called shrilly.

The silver-grey werewolf flinched and his blue eyes darted to the front door of the brick house. An auburn female werewolf was standing in the open doorway. She limped towards them, her eyes locked on the grey werewolf. As she got closer Abe noticed the red fur on the werewolf's muzzle faded into white near her nose, as if she was graying from old aged.

"Richard!" the red werewolf repeated. She focused her intense gaze on the silver-grey werewolf. "Have you been knocking over pedestrians _again?_" she demanded, completely ignoring Abe and Erica.

"Agatha, I—um, er—I—" Richard stuttered.

"What _have_ I told you about that? You _must_ look both ways—with your glasses _on_, mind you, and don't say you had them on because I _know_ you didn't—and make sure the street is _clear_ if you're going to transform in a _public_ area!"

Richard looked down and muttered something unintelligible that sounded like a mixture of apologies and excuses. Agatha smiled with satisfaction and wagged her tail and then turned her attention to Erica and Abe.

"Are you all right?" she asked. Without waiting for an answer the red werewolf quickly continued. "I'm sure you're both quite frightened, but I assure you this is just a nightmare and if you go home and get in bed everything will be better by morning."

"We're with the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense," Abe said. He could feel Erica tense beside him and knew she was holding her gun behind her back, ready to fire. Abe wasn't worried. Neither of the werewolves were projecting hostile intensions.

"Are you really?" Richard asked, peering through his spectacles at them.

Erica nodded and tapped the BPRD emblem on the shoulder of her black trench coat. "I'm Erica Schwarz and this is Abe Sapien," she said.

The two werewolves looked at each other. "They could help…" Richard said, trailing off.

"We can help each other, I think," Agatha replied, looking Abe and Erica up and down.

"What do you mean?" Erica asked.

"We know who you're looking for."

"How—?"

"You're looking for the werewolves that have been attacking people, aren't you?"

"Yes," Abe answered.

"Well, we know who and where they are. I presume they tricked you into attacking Richard."

"They attacked me?" Richard asked, sounding totally oblivious, "Really? I had no idea—!" He fell silent at a look from his wife.

"Could you take us to them?" Abe asked.

Agatha shook her head. "I don't know the way. But one of our friends does." She started limping in the direction of the house. Richard immediately bounded over and offered her his arm, every inch the gentleman, albeit a strange one since he was a werewolf. She gratefully took his arm and let him escort her towards the house.

"I can't imagine what I did with my cane," Agatha muttered, "I must have left it in the house when I heard what a ruckus you were making out here." She glanced over her shoulder and saw Abe and Erica still standing on the sidewalk.

"Come on you two. By the way, I'm Agatha and he's Richard. You can call us Grandma and Grandpa if you like."

Abe looked at Erica. "This is very weird," she whispered.

"They genuinely want to help us—or to get us to help them," Abe said. _But Erica does have a point. The night _is_ turning out to be distinctly odd._

Erica shrugged and put her gun back in the holster on her belt. Smiling toothily, Richard held the door open for them and then pulled it closed as they all stepped inside.

Ahead of him, Abe saw Agatha's werewolf body shrink and rearrange itself. A moment later the fish man was looking at a cute little old lady with red hair that was peppered with strands of white. Agatha smoothed her skirt and blouse and then adjusted the knitted shawl covering her shoulders. She beamed up at him, her blue eyes twinkling. _Apparently they can choose to transform back when they're not in the moonlight, _Abe thought, _I'll have to add that to our notes on werewolves. It would appear that there are different types._

"You can put that away, we're not going to hurt you," Richard—now a white haired old man in a grey suit— said, gesturing at Abe's gun.

"Can you blame him for keeping it out after you knocked _both_ of them flat on their backs _and_ gave them a heart attack with all your snarling and slobbering?" Agatha snapped as she retrieved her cane from the astoundingly ugly umbrella stand next to the front door. Agatha quickly limped down the hall and disappeared into the kitchen, followed by Richard.

Abe and Erica trailed behind them. Abe put his gun inside his coat and glanced inside the rooms he passed. The house was full of antique furniture, and everything was painfully neat. When Abe stepped into the kitchen he saw Agatha and Richard over by the counter. A white porcelain teapot and four matching cups and saucers were sitting on the table. Agatha was busy retrieving a tray of cookies from the oven and shooing Richard out of the way as he attempted to help her. She looked up and saw Abe.

"_Richard!_" she suddenly shouted, making her husband and Abe jump, "Why didn't you offer to take our guests' hats and coats?" she demanded.

"Er, I—"

"Never mind," Agatha sighed with exasperation, "Just do it."

"Actually, I'd prefer to hold onto mine," Abe said quickly.

"Why?"

Abe hesitated and looked at Erica for help.

"You might as well tell them, Blue," she said, "They're werewolves; they have supersensitive noses and eyes. They'll figure out what you are eventually."

Abe nodded and took off his hat, revealing his face. Richard's eyes widened. "If you don't mind my asking, sir, what are you?"

"I'm an Icthyo Sapiens. Quite literally a fish man," Abe said proudly. _A little ego never hurt anyone, _he thought, _especially when you're a freak._

Agatha nodded. "That explains why I've been smelling fish ever since I saw you two. Not that you smell bad, of course," she added hastily.

"You don't seem very surprised to see me," Abe said, genuinely astonished. Based on his experience with new agents he knew people had a tendency to freak out when they first met him._ Actually, it's rather nice not to have someone shout 'What the hell is that?'_

"We've heard stories about the BPRD and the oddities that live there," Agatha said, plopping the tray of cookies down on the table, "Considering what we've heard, you two are fairly normal looking."

"Thanks…I think," Erica said.

"Tea?" Agatha asked, gesturing at the teapot.

"Er, no thank you," Abe said. He eyed the clock on the wall with some concern. They'd split up with Hellboy half an hour ago and still hadn't heard anything from him or the Professor.

"Nein," Erica added, shaking her head.

"Oh, what a pity. Now it'll all go to waste," the old woman said, frowning a little.

"I'm sure you'll be able to drink—" Erica started.

"Drink it?" Agatha interrupted. She shook her head. "I never touch the stuff."

She picked up a teacup, grabbed a bottle of scotch from the counter and upended its contents into the delicate porcelain teacup. Shocked, Abe and Erica watched the old woman throw her head back and guzzle down the fiery liquid with her pinky properly extended as she help the teacup's dainty handle.

Richard chuckled. "She's a fine Irish woman, isn't she?" he said proudly, "Women today—they aren't like they used to be."

Agatha smiled and put her hands to her cheeks. "You slippery tongued devil! I've gone bright red!"

"Excuse me, not to be rude, but we are trying to catch some murderous werewolves," Abe broke in.

"Of course, but you'll have to meet the others first. Luke is with them. He'll take you where you need to go," Agatha explained, heading for a nearby doorway.

"Others?" Erica asked, looking at Abe with some concern.

"Come on you two! Time's a-wasting!" Agatha exclaimed.

Abe approached the door, his mind elsewhere. Specifically it was exploring the basement, which was full of werewolves. Fortunately Abe could tell none of them were the werewolves they were looking for, the ones in the basement were too peaceful. _Although they do feel unusually tense about something,_ he thought,_ but it's probably because they know there're strangers in the house._

Agatha pulled the door open and Abe was faced with a flight of stairs going down into the basement. Loud rock and roll music filtered up the stairs. The old woman started down the stairs, one hand holding the tray of cookies, and the other grasping her cane.

"I feel I must warn you. You're in for a bit of a shock, but no need to worry. We're all quite harmless," she called up to them.

Abe descended the stairs, a wary Erica right behind him. Richard brought up the rear.

Even though he knew what to expect Abe stopped at the bottom of the stairs so fast that Erica ran into him. He heard her gasp as she looked over his shoulder and saw what was in the basement. The entire room was full of werewolves. They were all engaged in various activities: some were clustered around a boom box, listening to rock and roll at painfully loud decibels; one female was stretched out on the floor reading a magazine and twitching her tail; and two big males were over at an air hockey table playing a vicious game. The rest were talking and lounging on brightly colored bean bag chairs, butterfly chairs, ottomans, and big fluffy pillows.

"Come on, it's safe," Agatha encouraged.

At her words the entire room went dead silent as all the werewolves turned to stare at Abe and Erica.

"Hey cutie," called a scruffy brown werewolf, winking at Erica as he shuffled a deck of playing cards. Abe couldn't tell if the winking was on purpose or due to a general lack of muscular control in the werewolf's face—he was drooling a little out of the side of his mouth and the right side of his face was completely slack—but Abe glared at him anyway. Behind him Erica muttered something in German that sounded far from being kind. The werewolf's grin only widened.

"Be nice to our guests, Luke," Agatha reprimanded the brown werewolf as Abe and Erica left the stairs, "And you two, either get a room or stop that this _instant_!" Her cane darted out and whacked a pair of werewolves in a lip lock under the steps. The other werewolves laughed as the pair emerged looking chastened and very embarrassed.

"That's better. And turn that music down, I can't hear myself _think_!"

"Yes _Grandma_," the werewolves chorused a little mockingly as a skinny, tawny werewolf turned the boom box off.

_Ah, silence, _Abe thought with relief.

"They're all your grandchildren?" Erica asked in disbelief.

"Not by blood. We've been adopting, as it were," Agatha said.

"We give them a safe place to transform, so long as they promise not to attack normal humans," Richard explained, "Unfortunately, the werewolves you're looking for don't share our philosophies. They kill for the fun of it."

_Just as Professor Broom feared, _Abe thought at Erica. She nodded distractedly, clearly uneasy to be surrounded by so many werewolves. Including the one that had been attempting to hit on her.

"And _they_ tried to pin _their_ attacks on _us_, I might add," Agatha said angrily, banging her tray of cookies down on a table. Her statement was accompanied by furious mutters and growls from the other werewolves.

"Who are they?" demanded one of the male werewolves at the air hockey table. He eyed Erica suspiciously and then flat out stared at Abe's far from normal face.

"This is Abe Sapien and Erica Schwarz. They're with the BPRD," Agatha explained, "They're going after those killers."

Her words grabbed the other werewolves' attention.

"Really? As in going to kill them?" the skinny tawny werewolf asked hopefully.

"Kill them?" another scoffed, "More like going to get themselves killed. There's only two of you!"

"We have a team waiting for us," Abe explained.

"They just don't know how to find the werewolves responsible for the attacks," Agatha said, looking pointedly at Luke. The scruffy werewolf's ear flicked at his name, making the two gold hoop earrings in it jangle together. He continued compulsively shuffling his deck of cards. "You want me to take them there, don't you?" he asked, glancing up as he cut the deck.

"Yes. And you better start moving," Agatha said sternly.

"I think it'll be worth my while. I've been wanting to give them what they deserve. And I think the company will be nice," he said, sneaking a sly look at Erica. His honey brown eyes glinted.

"Don't even think about it," she warned, glaring.

"Wait, what about Hellboy?" Abe asked, "He's still out there tracking a werewolf that fled the scene of the attack."

Luke started laughing loudly, attracting stares from everyone in the room.

"Laughing manically doesn't help with trying to prove your sanity," the female werewolf with the magazine muttered. Luke ignored her.

"Haha! Tracking? Hahahaha! He's on a wild goose chase! They would never be stupid enough to leave a trail back to their hideout! Hahahaha! If there's any tracks, you can bet your money on it that they're complete fakes!"

XXXXX

_The City's Alleys_

_Night_

Hellboy looked down at the end of the werewolf tracks and then back up at the wall. He swore. There was no way in hell even a werewolf could have scaled the wall without leaving a trace.

"Maybe it reverted to its human form," suggested Agent Moss as he examined the tracks.

"Maybe," Hellboy grunted, spotting one or two human footprints and a few that were half human, half wolf. None of them led out of the dead-end alley. "Damn it, where's Abe when you need him?" the demon muttered. He was beginning to realize that working alone or with one agent had its disadvantages. He flipped his earphone on. "Abe, Erica, where the hell are you guys?" he demanded.

There was silence and the crackle of static, followed by Abe's voice. "Red, you're not going to believe this, but we ran into some friendly werewolves. They want to help us."

"Why?" the demon asked, instantly suspicious.

"Perhaps it would be more accurate to say _they_ want _our_ help. They know where the werewolves responsible for the attacks are, and it turns out the two groups have been conflicting for a long time."

"Blue, please tell me we weren't called in to resolve a gang fight between werewolves."

"We weren't. It's a more dispute over philosophies. More specifically, over whether or not to kill and eat humans. The werewolves responsible for the attacks kill when they want to, the others abhor it. As a result they hate each other. The man-eaters already tricked Erica and I into attacking an innocent werewolf."

"That must'a been interestin'."

"Very funny Hellboy," Erica said sarcastically, her voice sharp even over the earphone, "I thought I was going to die."

"Huh. Sorry I missed it."

"Red, focus. The werewolves we're looking for have a base at a warehouse complex. Meet us there," Abe said, "You might have to use our locators, apparently it's not an easy place to find. Luke—one of the werewolves—is going to lead us there."

"Gotcha. I'll be there in a few minutes," Hellboy said. He turned the earphone off. "Hey, Moss, looks like there's goin' to be some action after all."

XXXXX

_A Warehouse Complex_

_Night_

Ten minutes later Hellboy and Agent Moss were walking up to the gate of the warehouse complex. Erica and Abe—now minus his disguise, which was folded neatly on the ground next to the wall—were already there. Hellboy eyed the brown werewolf next to them. The creature's fur stuck out at odd angles and he was leaning against the wall, compulsively shuffling a worn deck of playing cards. The werewolf's mouth was hanging open on the right side and long strands of saliva dripped down his muzzle and hung in the air, shining silver in the moonlight. Erica was eyeing the werewolf with obvious disgust. Other than that she and Abe looked okay in spite of their strange companion.

"Who would'a thought you two would find the action first," Hellboy grinned.

"If you hadn't insisted on splitting up, we wouldn't have," Erica pointed out.

Hellboy blew a stream of cigar smoke into the air as he peered through the slightly rusted iron bars of the gates. Forty feet away the huge, brooding warehouses crouched in rows in the darkness. The moonlight reflected off the windows, making them look like blind eyes. "Cheerful place, isn't it?" Hellboy said, "So, do we have a plan?"

"Kill anything that moves?" Luke suggested, "Not counting me, of course."

"Yeah, but how are we gonna tell you apart from the bad guys?" Hellboy asked, "And stop shufflin' those damn cards! It's annoyin'!"

The werewolf glared a little but stowed the cards in a small leather pouch hanging around his neck. "You'll be able to tell me apart because I won't be trying to rip your throat out," he said calmly. He added as an after thought, "And I'm wearing two gold hoops."

"Thanks," Hellboy said sarcastically. He glanced back up at the warehouse, "Abe, Erica, any suggestions?" the demon asked.

"Ja," Erica said, scanning the shadows, "based on how weird tonight has been, expect the unexpected."

"But doesn't that make the unexpected the expected?" Luke asked.

"Ha ha. Very funny. I'm not amused," she muttered.

"I would suggest that we spilt up and go in from different—"

Abe was interrupted by a piercing, unearthly howl. A moment later a huge black werewolf appeared on the roof of one of the buildings, his reddish eyes glaring down at them.

"Well, so much for havin' a plan," Hellboy observed, stubbing his cigar stump out on the wall, "Let's move!"

With one heave the demon tore the gate off its hinges and tossed it aside. He ran inside. Erica followed him just in time to see him take a shot at the face grinning over the roof. He missed. The werewolf snarled down at them and then drew its head back and disappeared. Hellboy started climbing a metal service ladder built onto the side of the building. Agent Moss scrambled up after him.

"Honestly, I don't know whether to go to this thing or just watch it on the news," Luke muttered. Then he ran at the wall of the warehouse and ran up the vertical surface, digging his claws into the concrete to get a foothold—

CRASH!

A white werewolf exploded through the second story window of the warehouse, sending a rain of broken glass down on Erica's and Abe's heads. Erica ducked and shielded her eyes with her arm as the shards fell on her head and back. When she looked up the white werewolf was racing across the pavement, looking for all the world like some kind of ghost or apparition—wearing a pink ribbon tied around its neck in a neat bow. The werewolf paused for a second in front of another warehouse to rip the doors off the hinges and then disappeared inside.

_Okay, did I just see what I thought I did?_ Erica thought. One glance at Abe confirmed her suspicions. His eyes were very wide. Obviously he had seen the pink bow too.

"Got a plan?" Erica asked as she peered into the huge dark, silent depths of the building.

"Don't get bitten," Abe said seriously, stepping inside.

"Thanks a _lot_!" she said derisively.

She stood just inside the doors, staring at the row after row of crates stacked as high as a three story building. Others were piled on the floor at varying heights. Each row was also intersected by another set of rows perpendicular to the first.

_It's like a giant maze!_ Erica thought, _That werewolf could be anywhere!_

With their guns held ready to fire, Erica and Abe slowly advanced down the row in front of them. Erica's eyes darted right and then left, searching the deep shadows that clung to the crates in the dim light of the warehouse. It was so quiet she could clearly hear her own breathing and the soft bubbling sound of Abe's respirator. Abe was scanning the area, his outstretched palm turning from the floor to the crates. Erica glanced up at the ceiling and then along the top of the crates. _That werewolf is up there watching us, _she thought. The instinctual feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach confirmed her thoughts. They were being watched. The feeling intensified as they neared one of the 'crossroads'. She could feel the hair on the back of her neck standing up. Her heart pounded loudly in her chest.

"Abe—"

"Erica! Move!" the fish man shouted, jumping to the side.

A crate crashed to the floor where he had been standing, the impact sending vibrations through the floor. She looked up as another crate toppled toward her and she quickly leapt out of the way. An ominous creaking came from her left. Erica slowly turned around. The blood drained from her face as she saw an entire wall of massive crates teetering precariously. They teetered, rocked, and then fell—straight towards her. She ran. The crates crashed to the floor with a deafening thud and the sound of splintering wood and snapping metal. The last crate smashed into pieces on the concrete floor and then there was silence. Erica turned and gazed up at the huge pile of shattered crates and debris and felt her stomach tighten with fear. _Where's Abe?_ She thought frantically.

"Blue?" she called anxiously.

"I'm all right," he called from the other side of the pile. Erica sighed with relief.

The sound of deep, barking laughter came from somewhere in the darkness. Without thinking Erica aimed at the sound and fired. The laughing continued. She gazed up at the pile of smashed crates separating her from Abe. Climbing it would make her vulnerable to attack. _But so will being alone, _she thought. A white flash of fur and pink ribbon caught her eye as the werewolf darted across the smashed crates he had pushed over.

BANG!

Abe's shot echoed through the enormous building. The werewolf ran faster. Erica followed, running in between the rows of crates, her eyes on the white werewolf. _If only I could get closer…_

Suddenly the werewolf leapt from the top of the crates. She heard him hit the floor on the opposite side of the row she was on. Erica sped up, running toward the end of the row. There were no more intersecting rows, she and the werewolf had no other choice but to go straight ahead. _With any luck we'll run into each other at the end, _she thought.

That was when she saw that at the end of the row there was a forty foot space, and then a wall with piles of crates at the bottom and a row of large glass windows at the top. She ran faster. _The werewolf is going to try to escape, _she realized, _I can't let him reach the windows._

She reached the end of the row and pressed her back up against the last crate and peered around the edge at the space between her and the windows. Dim moonlight filtered in through the grime encrusted windows and covered the floor with pale rectangular patches of light. She could hear the werewolf on the other side of her row coming closer. She cocked her gun and waited as the sounds drew nearer.

The soft shuffling sound of paws came from her left, on the other side of the crate, accompanied by the sound of panting. Erica held her breath. There was only one crate between her and the werewolf. She quickly glanced around the corner and saw the black nose and white muzzle, followed by the head and a paw—She pulled her head back around the crate before the werewolf could see her. She held her breath as he passed by and then shifted her position so she could watch him cross the empty space in front of the windows. She slowly, carefully aimed her gun at the creature, waiting for the perfect moment to shoot. She didn't want to miss when she was this close.

The white werewolf reached the pile of crates by the window and bounded up. There was a soft, hollow thud as he landed on top of a crate. He jumped again and again, drawing closer to the top of the pile. Erica adjusted her aim, waiting for the werewolf's back to be positioned so she could shoot him through the heart.

The werewolf crouched on top of the pile of crates, right in front of the window as if about to launch himself through the glass. He paused, admiring his own reflection in the glass, and adjusted the pink bow around his neck. Erica smiled as she saw the werewolf's body clearly silhouetted against the light. _Perfect shot, _she thought, coolly taking aim. She pulled the trigger.

BANG!

The shot shattered the silence with a sound like a firework going off at close range. The white werewolf collapsed backwards and fell, tumbling down the pile of crates. His body hit the concrete floor with a nauseating sound that reminded Erica of the all too familiar sound of a sledgehammer striking flesh—a sound she had heard too often when she had worked with Ilsa during WWII. Erica stepped out from her hiding place. The werewolf moaned and his front paws twitched, then flailed around as he tried to get to his feet. He wasn't dead. But he clearly couldn't get up either. Mildly surprised at his resilience, Erica carefully approached the white werewolf, her gun trained on his head. She saw the werewolf's white fur was stained crimson around a bullet hole in the center of his back, just above his waist. Her bullet had struck the werewolf's lower spine and paralyzed his back legs.

Hearing her footsteps the werewolf pushed itself up on his front legs and turned his huge head to face her. His mouth opened in a snarl—its front legs buckled and the werewolf fell to the floor with a howl of frustration and pain. Erica walked towards the struggling creature, her gun aimed at its skull. The werewolf's tongue lolled out of its mouth as it gasped for air. The red tinted eyes glared up at her.

"Who are you?" the werewolf growled, staring past her gun at her face.

"Someone who's not supposed to exist," she answered harshly.

And then she pulled the trigger. The werewolf shuddered once and then went limp. It was dead. The fur began to disappear and the muzzle shrank as the body transformed back into a human. The change was automatic and brought on by death. Erica averted her eyes and walked away. _I hate looking at dead werewolves when they transform back,_ she thought,_ Seeing them dead in human form makes me feel like a murderer._

Her earphone crackled to life. "Erica?" Abe's asked, sounding concerned.

"I'm fine," she answered, "I got the werewolf. Where are you?"

"In a row of crates, where else?" he replied dryly.

"Meet me at the doors, I'll be there in a few minutes," she said.

Erica smiled as she walked down a long row of crates, heading towards the door. _A job well done, _she thought. She could dimly hear Hellboy pursuing the black werewolf somewhere outside the warehouse. Erica put her gun back in its holster on her belt. _Tonight has been really strange, and that's saying something coming from me, _she thought, _but we'll get to go home soon, and Halloween is coming, so all this craziness will slow down. _She reached the end of the row and was jerked from her thoughts by the sight of a werewolf standing in the door-less opening with its back to her. She froze for a moment. _Did the black werewolf get away from Hellboy? _She wondered. But no, this one was smaller. She relaxed. _It's only Luke._

"Luke, I killed the white werewolf. What are you doing here? Did you and Hellboy get the other one already?"

"No. And I'm going to _kill you_!" the werewolf roared, whirling around to face her.

She felt her heart stop as she stared at the huge bared teeth and heavily scarred face. The two eyes glared at her, one cloudy with blindness and the other green eye hazy with the red light of madness. Human blood stained the werewolf's lips and the fur on his muzzle. He wasn't Luke.

"Mein Gott," she muttered, slowly backing away. Professor Broom had been right about there being more than two werewolves. But why hadn't Luke mentioned how many there were?

"Murderer!" the werewolf snarled.

"Let he who is not guilty of sin cast the first stone," she said grimly. The werewolf snarled in response and she almost retched at the smell of human flesh on the creature's breath.

She drew a silver dagger and dodged to the side as a huge arm swung toward her—cruel claws grabbed her waist in an iron grip and picked her up into the air. The werewolf growled and opened his jaws to bite her—she forced the dagger deep into the taught muscles of the werewolf's arm. The werewolf howled in pain and, enraged, flung her away as easily as if she were a rag doll. She flew through the doorway and slammed into the pavement outside the building. Her momentum sent her tumbling head over heels and she grabbed at the ground. The rough pavement tore mercilessly into her palms but she succeeded in stopping herself. She scrambled to her feet as the werewolf charged at her, his claws gouging deep scratches in the blacktop as he ran at her.

She pulled her gun from the holster on her belt. _If I get out of this alive, I'm going to kill Luke, _she thought.

XXXXX

_Moldavia_

_A Tavern_

_Night_

The wind whistled chillingly around the wooden frame of the only window in the room. Kroenen stared through the glass panes, listening to the soft sound of snow swirling against it. It sounded like sand scraping and sliding across metal.

Though it was very late at night the sounds of a few lingering customers could be heard downstairs in the tavern. The scrape of a chair across the wooden floor and the distinctive clink of mugs filtered up the stairs, down the hall, and through the door into his room. Kroenen ignored them and turned back to his work.

Blades covered the table top in front of him: daggers, knives. But his baton swords held his gaze. He picked one up, lovingly wrapping his hand around the blade's grip. He admired the way the candlelight in the room reflected on the gleaming, flawless surface. The light danced along the script writing engraved into the blade's surface: Alles für Deutschland. Everything for Germany. He smiled inwardly. The blades were function and beauty all rolled up into one nice little package. Perfection.

Kroenen admired well-designed and well made weapons. And he especially liked the feel of his twin baton swords in his hands: they were Death himself imprisoned in steel. But he had time to kill in a much more purposeful manner than simply admiring his blades. He picked up a dagger and began sharpening its edges, filling the room with a harsh grating noise far worse than fingernails scraping down a chalkboard. Kroenen was used to the eerie sound. It was just one of many he was accustomed to, including screaming.

He stopped working for a moment, hearing the door of the tavern bang as the last customers hastily exited the building. Apparently they were unappreciative of the skin crawling sound coming from his room. His skull-like grin widened at the thought of their frightened faces. Then his expression faltered as he felt another presence on the edge of his mind. But he was alone…

In a flash his eyesight darkened and the room disappeared as his sight was directed inwards. The sand in his veins hissed and squirmed like an angry cobra trapped in his blood vessels. Almost like his blood was trying to get away from something—Then he knew.

_Ah. Erica, _he thought, _Our blood bond._ The connection was faint, but strong enough that he felt an emotion he had often shared with her in the past: the elation of killing. _Though she's apparently doing something 'good'. It seems she's killed another werewolf._ A moment later the connection faded and was gone.

Kroenen shifted slightly in his chair and compulsively pulled the battered black and white photograph of The Three from the pocket of his trench coat.

"Don't worry," he murmured, his eyes locked Erica's figure in the photograph, "I'll honor my promise to you. And when we do meet, Heaven nor Hell will interfere then."

The dim yellow light in the room flickered as a small draft sent the candle flames dancing. The door closed softly and the familiar sounds that accompanied Ilsa reached his ears. He glanced at her as she set a small bag on the floor near the door. Realizing that he still had the photograph in his hand, Kroenen furtively slipped it back inside his pocket. He wasn't quick enough. _Or she just knows me too well, _he thought, seeing Ilsa throw a disapproving glance in his direction. Thankfully she didn't say anything. She strode to the fireplace and viciously threw another log on the fire. Red sparks cascaded down to the grate and then abruptly changed direction as they were sucked up the chimney with the smoke. Ilsa unceremoniously flopped down in a chair near the fire and stared at him. Kroenen ignored her and resumed sharpening his dagger. He wasn't going to bother to ask her why she was in his room and not in her own. _She'll eventually either tell me or get up and leave._

"What are you doing?" Ilsa asked, breaking the silence.

"Use your eyes, you're not blind," he retorted, his words exact and clipped. Now they were even, his words to her dirty look.

"Which is why I saw you looking at that photograph. _Again._ Why?"

"I felt…" he gestured, trying to explain, "Erica killed something. Someone."

Ilsa's expression darkened and her blue eyes became icy. "At least the Seven Gods of Chaos have prevented her from using her visions to spy on us," she said. Her face contorted with anger, "_Damn_ her," Ilsa hissed.

"Believe me, she doesn't need your help," Kroenen said dryly, "She's quite good at damning herself."

Ilsa laughed. The sound was as cold as the howling wind outside. "I've always thought it was strange she thought betraying us was the 'right' thing to do. The _right thing_? Since when did she have morals? And with everything she's done she's insane if she thinks she can save her soul."

Kroenen nodded in agreement. "She owes it to the Ogdru Jahad. They will destroy her soul when I sacrifice her to them." His voice dripped with pure venom.

Ilsa smiled at him. Revenge was what motivated Kroenen now. He had thought about almost nothing else over the past six decades. _I hope I'm there to watch him kill Erica, _she thought. Ilsa wanted revenge too. Though indirectly, Erica had killed Grigory—or pushed him as close to death as he could go. But as much as she wanted revenge Ilsa also knew that Erica would kill her in a fight. Consequently she was more than happy to watch Kroenen do the work, especially since his desire for revenge had become an obsession that was slowly driving him insane. _His fight to the death with Erica will certainly be something to see,_ she thought.

Ilsa leaned back in her chair and watched Kroenen polishing the blades laid out on the table. _We're so close, _she thought with a surge of satisfaction and elation, _tomorrow night_ _Grigory Rasputin will be back_. After that she knew Erica would be killed and the Ogdru Jahad would be released from their prison. Paradise was what awaited their loyal followers. She could see it as clearly as if it were a vision. _So much will be gained, _she thought happily. Her happiness evaporated as she glanced at the clockwork assassin, _But something will be lost as well. _

Kroenen felt her gaze and glanced up at her. For a few moments she silently looked into the dark voids of the lenses that hid his eyes. Then she stood up and retrieved the bag she had left on the floor near the door. She carefully removed the bag's contents, two glass wine flutes and a bottle of red wine, and set them on the table where he was working. Kroenen put aside his weapons and watched her with his head tilted to one side, curious.

"Does it bring back memories, Karl?" she asked as she poured the blood red wine into the glasses.

"Ja," he admitted, half grudgingly, "Not all of them pleasant."

Apparently the memory of toasting their future success with red wine on October 9, 1944 was still vivid in his mind. Ilsa wouldn't have expected any less. She set one of the wineglasses in front of Kroenen. As she had anticipated, he stood up and somewhat awkwardly unbuckled the two straps that held on his mask. He slowly removed his gasmask and gently set it on the table, all the while watching her for any sign of revulsion at his grotesque features. He thrived on it. Ilsa knew this and smiled sweetly at him, just to spite him. Though she had seen his face often enough in the past she knew she would never truly get used to it. _If death was ever given a human body,_ she thought, _he would look like Kroenen._

Kroenen's lidless eyes stared out at her from a face covered in thick scar tissue. The pale abused skin surrounded the constantly weeping, raw flesh where his eyelids and lips had once been. The gruesome appearance of his face was added to by his lack of eyebrows and the taught, deeply creased skin where his flesh had been forcibly and inartistically drawn back together by stitches. His one redeeming feature was his eyes. Unlike the rest of his face his blue eyes were still hauntingly beautiful and crystal clear. _Beautiful, _Ilsa thought. She raised her wineglass and the apparition-like man did the same.

"To Grigory Rasputin and the Seven Gods of Chaos," she whispered.

"And to Germany," Kroenen added, his voice just as quiet.

Ilsa drank, watching the living cadaver over the sparkling rim of her glass. Kroenen leaned his head back and allowed the wine to trickle into his mouth and down his throat. He tilted his head forward again before he was finished swallowing it all and half of the wine ran out between his teeth and dribbled down his face, neck, and chest. Strings of saliva mixed with wine hung from his mouth like pale red-purple ribbons of spider silk. He quickly lapped them up, licking at his exposed teeth and gums, now stained red. He was obviously enjoying himself.

Ilsa laughed at him, but not cruelly. She was half surprised to find that the smile on her lips was genuine. But really, she knew she shouldn't have been so surprised. She was drinking wine with Death personified, why shouldn't she enjoy herself? It was what she had wanted and what she had intended. _What was it he told me recently?_ She wondered, _Ah yes, what Grigory doesn't know won't hurt us._ In her eyes loyalty was a ridiculous idea, and one that only fools and cowards adhered to. She was devoted to Grigory, yes, but faithful never. In a way she was as much a traitor as Erica was.

_There's something really wonderful about flirting with Death—providing you don't die, of course,_ Ilsa thought. She watched him finish draining the wine from his glass.

_What Grigory doesn't know won't hurt us._

Leaving her wineglass on the table Ilsa stood up and opened the door that joined their rooms. She paused in the doorway and looked back at Kroenen. He was watching her expectantly. _One last chance, _Ilsa thought, _tomorrow Grigory will be back and it'll be too late. One last chance._

"I think there might be space for you in my room, providing you get lonely. Or need a change of scenery," Ilsa said suggestively.

She didn't have to make her invitation twice.

Author's Notes: So you all finally got me to write some I x K! I think they definitely stole the show in this chapter; I enjoyed writing about them the most. What did you think of the unconventional werewolves? Who was your favorite? And the cliffie with Erica? And cookies for anyone who caught onto Professor Broom purposefully avoiding Abe! Next chapter the issue with the werewolves will be cleared up and we will get very, very close to Grigory's resurrection! Please Review!


	8. Some Unfinished Business

**Chapter 8: Some Unfinished Business**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Volker Maynard the vampire, Luke the werewolf, Ezekiel the black werewolf, the one-eyed brown werewolf, Marie Baker, and the plot that isn't from the movie is mine.

Author's Notes: Thanks so much for the reviews! I love my reviewers! Erm, unfortunately this chapter isn't as long as you might be used to, but for the sake of my own sanity and that of my editor, I decided I should cut back on the twenty plus page chapters I've been writing. Anywhoo, the evil cliffee with Erica being attacked by a werewolf will be cleared up, and we start getting into the events that happened before the second scene in the movie(the snowy one), such as Hellboy breaking out to see Liz, which means she shows up for the first time in the story! Enjoy the chapter!

**amyltrer:** Thanks! I really liked the fighting scenes too. Actions scenes are some of my most favorite to write. Great to know you like I x K. I wasn't sure how people were going to take that.

**The Common Wind Deity:** Wow! A big review! Yeah, Richard apologizing has got to be one of the funniest parts. It's so unexpected! Unlike I x K… thanks for letting me know I wrote that part realistically!

**Psycho Clowns:** A new reviewer! Yay! Hmm, you've given me an idea about her family. I may just have to use it! Thanks!

**musicamode: **The twist was what made it so much fun! I think Richard is one of my favorites, too. The other would have to be Luke.

**iluvrocknroll: **Sorry about the evil cliffee, it couldn't be helped. Are you _sure_ your grandmother's not a werewolf? Just kidding! Oh, and a big thanks for the 'kill me' stamp idea you left in a review of an earlier chapter. I put it to good use in here.

"Remember, we all stumble, everyone of us. That's why it's a comfort to go hand in hand."—Emily Kimbrough

_A Warehouse Complex_

_Night_

Hellboy jumped into space. The wind rushed by his face—he landed with a dull thud on the flat roof of another warehouse. A few meters away the black werewolf stood on all fours looking very disappointed that Hellboy hadn't fallen. A nearby skittering of claws on concrete announced Luke's successful landing on the roof. The left side of Luke's face grinned at the black werewolf, the grin made all the more horrible by the slack right side of his face. Luke's gold hoop earrings clinked together as he crouched low on all fours, gathering himself for a spring.

"You're a traitor to your own kind," the black werewolf spat, his eyes shining red. The light of the full moon played across his inky fur and lit the roof brightly.

"And glad to be one, Ezekiel," Luke replied. He threw himself at the black werewolf and the two tumbled across the roof, biting and clawing like mad as they tried to gain the upper hand.

"Hey! Red!"

Hellboy turned and saw Agent Moss standing on the roof of the warehouse Luke had just jumped from. Moss and Hellboy were separated by a gap of empty space the agent would never be able to jump.

"Stay there," Hellboy said gruffly.

A loud yelp from Luke drew his attention. Luke was laying on his side, his ears back and flat against his head in fear. The black werewolf stood over him, his eyes gleaming triumphantly as he went to tear out Luke's throat—Hellboy drew back his stone fist and punched the black werewolf square in the jaw. There was a loud crack of bone breaking and Ezekiel tumbled across the roof from the force of the blow. He got to his feet coughing loudly and then spit out two broken teeth and a mouthful of blood. The black werewolf growled with anger. His thin lips curled back to reveal his long, white teeth dripping with saliva dyed pink by his blood. He stalked towards Hellboy, his long claws clicking on the concrete roof. The look in his eyes was murderous.

"What? Are you comin' back for more, hairball?" Hellboy asked. He aimed his gun at the black werewolf as he came at him. Ezekiel's furry forehead was in the gun's sights. _I'll get him right between the eyes, _the demon thought. He tightened his finger on the trigger— Ezekiel abruptly changed direction and ran toward the edge of the roof and jumped. He sailed through space and landed on all fours on the roof of another warehouse—right next to a suddenly white-faced Agent Moss.

"Oh crap," Hellboy cursed.

"Come on!" Luke yelled over his shoulder as he leapt off the roof. His leap carried him in an arc that Hellboy knew would be too short to bridge the gap. Luke was less than a meter from his destination when Hellboy saw the werewolf fall straight down, his paws wind-milling crazily and clawing at the air—Luke grabbed the edge of a window ledge as he plummeted and dug his claws in, stopping his fall with a sound a hundred times worse than nails being dragged over a chalkboard. The scruffy werewolf's back legs scrabbled at the wall for a foothold, tearing long trenches in the cinderblock wall.

_He'll be fine, _Hellboy thought, watching as Luke began climbing up the vertical surface. Hellboy backed up a few steps and took a running jump. Thankfully he reached the other side and his boots hit the concrete roof, transferring the force of the landing into his feet. He winced.

BAM!

The sound of the gunshot shattered the night air. Unfortunately Agent Moss had missed. The black werewolf snarled and reared up on his back legs, towering over the Agent. Moss's already white face went even paler as the werewolf's shadow fell over him— Ezekiel threw himself on the Agent, knocking him down on the roof, and swiped a huge front paw across Moss's chest. Moss shrieked as the creature's curved claws tore through his jacket and into his skin.

Hellboy hissed in frustration as he tried to get a clear shot at the black werewolf. It was moving too much. And with his aim he knew he'd miss. _To hell with this! _Hellboy thought as he ran towards the struggling agent and the werewolf.

Agent Moss fumbled desperately with his handgun as the werewolf's jaws snapped open, sending a blast of reeking hot air into Moss's face. The Agent pulled the trigger—the werewolf reared back, howling in pain as the silver bullet tore into his back leg—a flying blur of brownish fur struck Ezekiel full force in the side, pushing him away from Agent Moss. It was Luke.

The black werewolf struggled to his feet. His back leg was bleeding profusely and he held it slightly off the ground. The sickening smell of silver reacting with the werewolf's blood filled the air. Maddened by pain Ezekiel crouched low to the ground, his red eyes fixed on Luke as he prepared to attack—

"Hey! Hairball!" Hellboy shouted.

Ezekiel's head swiveled to face him. Hellboy grinned as the black werewolf darted a look back at Luke. Ezekiel was standing between them. He was trapped, and the look on the werewolf's face clearly displayed that he knew it. In the sudden silence they could hear Agent Moss groaning in the background as he rolled over on his side and tried to sit up. Hellboy raised his huge gun.

"Say goodbye, hairball," he said.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Ezekiel replied, staring down the barrel of the huge weapon.

Hellboy's finger tightened on the trigger. Ezekiel grinned knowingly at him. The red demon studied the werewolf with narrowed eyes.

"And why not?" Hellboy asked.

"Look down there," the werewolf said, his red eyes gleaming evilly. He pointed with one long claw over the edge of the roof.

Below them Erica was shooting over her shoulder as she ran away from the brown werewolf that was chasing her. _No biggie. She and Abe can deal_, Hellboy thought. He scanned the ground, expecting to see Abe in hot pursuit of the brown werewolf. But the fish man wasn't anywhere in sight.

_That's _not_ a good sign,_ he thought. He looked at Ezekiel and then down at the ground, torn between finishing off the black werewolf and helping his friends.

"Hellboy!" Luke yelled.

Hellboy turned his head just in time to see the gigantic black werewolf come flying straight towards him, his lethal claws fully extended and his mouth open in a ferocious snarl.

"Whoa!" the demon yelled. He threw himself flat on the roof and the black werewolf sailed over him, growling with frustration. Ezekiel landed on all fours, his nails gouging long channels across the concrete roof as he brought himself to a stop a few inches from the edge. Ezekiel looked back at Hellboy and smiled craftily. Then he leaned over the edge of the roof and started to climb down.

"I don't think so!" Hellboy yelled. He grabbed the werewolf's tail with his right hand.

The werewolf howled in pain as the stone hand crushed his tail and dragged him away from the edge. Hellboy punched left and right, feeling his stone fist sink deep into the werewolf's body. Two blows to the werewolf's jaws left them hanging slack and dripping with blood. The black werewolf whimpered and a strangled howl gurgled from his throat as he pawed at his broken jaws. Luke threw himself into the melee, tearing and biting at the black werewolf's neck and back. Ezekiel fought for his life, his red eyes now shining with fear and desperation. Claws raked across Hellboy's arms, ripping through his red skin—the red demon threw Ezekiel to the ground and slammed a boot down on the werewolf's side, caving in a section of his ribs and pinning him to the ground.

"Luke! Move!" Hellboy yelled as he brought his huge gun up so it was aimed directly at the black werewolf's head. Luke let go of his hold on Ezekiel's neck and backed away with blood dripping down his chin. Hellboy looked down at Ezekiel. The werewolf's red eyes were wide open and his ears lay flat against his head.

"You have so got to die," Hellboy said.

BAM!

The black werewolf's eyes rolled back in his head as his body twitched and then went limp. A pool of dark steaming blood began spreading across the roof as it drained from Ezekiel's heart. The nauseating stench of silver and werewolf blood was thick in the cold autumn air.

Hellboy lowered his gun and stomped over to Agent Moss. The Agent was sitting up and leaning against a low barrier around that side of the roof. One of his hands was held tightly against his chest.

"You alright Moss?"

The Agent forced a smile and nodded slightly. Hellboy could see the Agent's bloody chest through the rips in his clothes. The red demon couldn't help but grin a little at the Agent.

"First vampy and now this. I swear you have a huge 'try-to-kill-me' stamp on your forehead with all the trouble you get into—"

The screech of tires alerted Hellboy to someone's arrival on the scene. From his vantage point on the roof he could see two shiny black cars pulling up outside the wall that surrounded the warehouse complex. A few agents piled out of the cars and headed toward the gates before the vehicles were fully stopped.

"I called for back up," Moss explained.

Hellboy nodded. "Stay here. I'm gonna help Erica and Abe. Hey, Luke!"

The werewolf looked up from sniffing at Ezekiel's ruined body, which was slowly transforming back into a gaunt looking human man. Luke looked disgusted.

"Yeah?"

"Come on. Blue's gonna need us."

XXXXX

Erica crouched on a narrow windowsill. She pressed her back against the window as she reloaded her gun with silver bullets. _Good thing Abe told me to bring extras, _she thought. Her chest heaved as she breathed heavily. She had just managed to get away from the werewolf by squeezing through the small gap between the wall of a warehouse and a stack of metal shipping containers. With the assistance of a rainspout she had climbed up to the window ledge that went around the second story of the building. That was where she was hiding now.

Below her she heard the soft tread of paw pads and the sound of loud sniffing. She drew her body as far back on the ledge as she could.

_Damn. It's too bad I never learned how Kroenen scaled vertical surfaces,_ she thought, _I could have gotten up here faster if I hadn't had to look for a way up._

Below her she could hear the werewolf hunting for her and mumbling to himself.

"Stupid human," the werewolf muttered, "I'm gonna kill her for stabbing me like that. Completely uncalled for. All I wanted to do was tear her limb from limb."

Erica put her gun under her trench coat to muffle the sound of her cocking her weapon. There was a soft metallic click and she held her breath, silently praying the werewolf hadn't heard it. Below her the sound of muttering continued unabated as the werewolf tried to pick up her scent. She breathed out slowly in relief and tried to bring her pounding heart under control. She risked a glance over the edge of the windowsill and saw the werewolf walking on all fours and drawing closer, licking absentmindedly at the human blood that stained his muzzle. _I'm not going to let him find me, _she decided. She glanced at the rainspout and the beginnings of a plan popped into her head. It wasn't a good plan, but it was better than nothing. Below her she heard the werewolf stumble.

"Ow! My arm! Stupid wound! These nightly killing sprees _really _take it out of me," the werewolf mumbled, as if expecting to get a reaction of sympathy or pity from some higher power.

"Good. That makes my job easier," Erica said.

Startled, the werewolf looked up as she jumped from her hiding place and slid down the rainspout, holding on with one hand. The friction burned her scratched palm and she let go and fell the last few feet to the ground. Without pausing she took aim and shot at the werewolf as it bounded towards her. The sharp reports from her gun echoed loudly across the warehouse complex. Two of the three bullets made contact and buried themselves in the werewolf's muscular shoulders. But the werewolf didn't stop charging—if anything he ran faster.

"_Scheiße!_" Erica turned and ran.

XXXXX

Abe had _finally_ found the way out of the maze of crates. The fish man stepped through the doors of the building and out into the moonlit night. Erica was nowhere in sight. _I wonder where she is, _he thought, _She said she would meet me here_—

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running footsteps. He recognized the sound—there was no mistaking the noise jackboots made on asphalt. _Erica?_ He thought. No sooner did he look in the direction of the footsteps than Erica appeared around the corner of the building running at top speed.

"Blue! Shoot that thing!" she yelled at him as she ran by.

"What?" he asked.

A loud angry snarl caused him to turn around—a one-eyed werewolf came straight at him, jaws slavering and blood pouring from the wounds on his furry shoulders. Abe was nearly run over as the creature charged by him on all fours, kicking up gravel as the werewolf's claws dug into the blacktop.

_Oh no, _Abe thought, his heart pounding loudly. Erica ran in a circle, the werewolf following close behind her. The fish man aimed his gun at the monster and waited tensely for Erica to be out of the way so he could shoot.

Erica's feet slid across the ground as she turned sharply to the left, hoping the werewolf's mass and speed would cause him to miss the turn and slide into the wall of a warehouse. But the werewolf made the turn, tearing up the asphalt as his claws dug in to prevent him from sliding. _Great, just great,_ she thought, feeling the monster's hot, putrid breath on her neck. She half turned as she ran and threw a silver dagger at the creature's face. As she had hoped he slowed his speed and ducked, giving her time to get further ahead. Now she had enough distance to pull off a very risky maneuver that she knew would probably get her killed. She knew she couldn't run from the werewolf much longer. Her only chance was to turn and fight. As she ran Erica brought her gun up to her shoulder and got ready to turn around and shoot. _Please don't let me miss, _she prayed, _I'll only get one shot._ Her finger tightened on the trigger—

Abe waited, feeling helpless. Erica was running straight towards him with the werewolf behind her. She was in the way, he couldn't shoot—

—Erica whirled around and came to a dead stop, swiveling her arm so the gun's muzzle was pointed directly at the onrushing werewolf. The werewolf's single green eye widened with surprise and he reared up on his back legs as he tried to stop, making his heart an easy target for her—

Abe had felt his heart stop when Erica turned to fight the werewolf, but now it soared as he saw the werewolf rear up above her. He had the chance he needed! He aimed carefully—

BANG!

Blood spurted from a bullet hole in the werewolf's skull. Erica stared up at the creature, momentarily confused. Her finger still rested on the trigger she had never pulled. _What the—? Who shot it?_ The sound of the shot had come from behind her… _Abe,_ she thought and smiled. She was momentarily distracted by the sight of Luke and Hellboy standing nearby. _They must have shown up just as the shot went gone off,_ she thought.

Abe's gills fluttered as he sighed with relief. _That was too close,_ he thought. The fish man watched as Erica, Hellboy, and Luke stared at the one-eyed werewolf as it swayed and then slumped to the ground, dead. Everyone looked at Abe and then back at the werewolf. Hellboy's mouth was hanging open a little. Abe was pleased to see that his friend looked shocked.

"Whoa. Nice," Erica said, glancing down at the neat bullet hole in the werewolf's skull. It was exactly between the eyes.

"Where did that come from, Blue?" Hellboy asked.

Abe shrugged and smiled. "I can't let you have _all_ the fun."

"Translation: you want to be a badass sometimes," Hellboy said.

Abe considered the demon's statement and then nodded. That got laughs from everyone, even himself.

"I believe that leaves us with one werewolf each, doesn't it?" Abe said.

"Speaking of which," Erica said, rounding on Luke, "Why didn't you tell us how many there were?"

Luke shrugged, an action that sent his gold earrings jangling together. "It slipped my mind."

"Somehow I think that must not be hard to do," came Erica's scathing reply.

Luke only grinned at her with his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. "It's not all my fault. You didn't ask me, did you?" he pointed out.

Erica was about to reply when the sound of voices and the roar of car engines reached their ears. Abe knew it was the BPRD's agents. He looked towards the noise and saw the glow of flashlights and car headlights playing over buildings some distance from them.

"Well, so long my freaky darlings. I'll be going now," Luke announced, "If you need any help in the future, just give me and the others a call." He looked at Erica and winked. This time it was clearly on purpose and Abe felt his gills flare inside his respirator. Luke ignored him and continued. "As for you, cutie, if you ever get lonely or bored, you can call me anytime."

"Shut up," Erica replied, glaring a little.

Undeterred, Luke chuckled and trotted off in the opposite direction of the arriving agents, his scruffy tail wagging behind him. He stopped in the shadows of a warehouse and looked over his shoulder at them.

"By the way," he called back, "You might need our help sooner than you think. Something dark is stirring. All of the werewolves can feel it. It can't mean anything good."

Without stopping to explain he ran deeper into the shadows and melted into the night.

"That was cryptic," Erica said, "I wonder what he—?"

She was interrupted by the arrival of a convoy of cars. Abe quickly closed his set of transparent eyelids as the flashing lights and glaring headlights blinded him. The air was suddenly full of the sounds of slamming car doors and loud voices as the werewolf's dead body was spotted. A moment later the siren of an ambulance joined the cacophony.

"That's probably for Moss," Hellboy muttered as the ambulance careened across the pavement towards them.

"Why? Where is he?" Erica asked. She was still holding her gun. Abe looked closer at it. A thin trickle of scarlet red stained the dark metal as blood dripped from her hand.

"On a roof," Hellboy answered, "The poor guy—"

Just then Tom Manning arrived with the clean up crews and started shouting about something, adding to the clamor. Abe sighed.

_This has been one hell of a night, _he thought.

XXXXX

_The Garbage Truck_

_Night_

Hellboy sat alone in a corner of the garbage truck, brooding in the silence as the truck drove along the deserted streets. His happiness at successfully completing the mission had evaporated the moment he'd gotten in the truck. Probably because there was nothing to distract him from his own thoughts. _This is the second mission I've been on since the last time I saw Liz, _the red demon thought. He absentmindedly scratched at the bandages covering the deep gashes on his arm. Behind him he could hear the soft sound of Erica dabbing at her bleeding hands with gauze and the bubbling sound of Abe's respirator. He knew the fish man was looking at him.

"Red, what's wrong?" Abe asked, breaking the relative silence.

"I was just thinkin' about Liz, okay?" Hellboy said over his shoulder, irritated. He knew Abe knew _exactly_ what he was thinking about. "Thinkin' about how much help she'd have been tonight, that's all," he added for Erica's benefit. Although she probably knew what he really meant…Hellboy looked out the one way mirror that served as a window in the truck, wishing they would passBellamie Mental Hospital on the way back to the BPRD. "God I miss her," he muttered softly.

_But I can fix that, _he thought. He glanced behind him at Abe, who was frowning slightly at him. It was obvious he knew what Hellboy was planning to do. _But Blue won't turn me in, _the demon thought, _he never has. _He sighed. _Father is going to be so mad at me. But it'll be worth it. To see her._

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Night_

Marie Baker was doing her rounds. She'd finished washing and polishing the floor in the lobby some hours ago and was now going around turning off the lights in the halls so only the emergency lights were on. It saved electricity. She stifled a yawn as she walked down the hall. _Custodians are so underappreciated, _she thought, _At least they pay really well here. More than makes up for the long hours. And the weirdness._

She started down the Artifact Hall and shivered as she looked at the glass cases displaying occult artifacts. The clay golem and the mummified hand were especially creepy, and she shuddered as she passed them and then quickly hurried on. She passed a few more cases containing reliquaries, pagan altars, preserved specimens floating in jars, ceremonial daggers, and carved statuary. She briefly stopped to admire a case containing two dried roses lying side by side. One rose was so muddy she could just barely tell that its petals had once been red. The stem of the muddy rose was broken and was only hanging on by a thin piece of the plant's outer skin. The other rose was black and had a crimson ribbon tied around its stem in a bow. Marie peered at the ribbon, squinting in an effort to read the spidery script writing on the ribbon. She finally decided it wasn't written in English.

_Probably German_, Marie Baker thought absentmindedly, _I wonder what it says. Then again, if it's in here, it's probably best not to know._ She passed a case containing the Spear of Longinus and nodded respectfully. When she looked up again she noticed something very odd and somewhat frightening about the set of pneumatic doors in front of her. Big dents from an oversized fist had deformed the two-inch thick metal plates.

"Those are going to have to be replaced," she muttered, frowning, "And that damage had better not mean what I think it does." She stepped up to the dented doors. They opened slowly, the damaged mechanisms struggling, and she quickly jogged down the hall through a few more sets of doors. She went through the last set and came to an abrupt halt as she saw the stainless steel door at the end of the hall that led to Hellboy's room. Or at least, she saw what was left of it. The metal was twisted and warped; there were holes in a few places where the metal had torn under the stress of a stone fist beating at it. A small furry brown kitten peaked through one of the holes and mewed mournfully.

Hellboy was gone. _Again._

Marie grimly pulled a walkie-talkie from her pocket, knowing full well that all the damage was going to mean staying even later and possibly all night, doing a heap of paperwork, and calling in a repair crew ASAP. _Oh, and add an angry, grounded Hellboy to all of that, _she thought.

XXXXX

_Bellamie Mental Hospital_

_Night_

Liz watched as Hellboy gingerly sat down on the stone bench beside her. As usual his body was covered in scrapes and bruises, and as usual they were obviously hurting him. The chilly autumn wind blew through the topiary garden and Liz shivered and drew her sweater closer around her. Dry leaves swirled at her feet and somewhere in the distance of the city a dog barked.

"Boy, did we have a bad night," Hellboy said, sighing.

"What happened?" Liz asked. She examined his face in the dim light from a bulb that was lighting up some of the leafless bushes.

"I don't even want to talk about it."

"Did it have anything to do with all those sirens about midnight?"

"I _said_ I don't want to talk about it."

"Was it really that bad?" she asked, concerned.

"Could'a been worse. These past few days have been crazy, Liz. You know how it is around Halloween," he said. She nodded. Inside her stomach squirmed with the familiar feeling of indecision about where she belonged. She wrapped her arms around herself against the cold both inside and outside of her and she leaned against Hellboy's shoulder. The familiar scent of his brown leather trench coat filled her nose and she smiled. Hellboy continued. "I mean, we barely got back from dealin' with a vampire in Transylvania—"

"A vampire?" Liz asked, curious.

"Yeah. Turned out to be one of Erica's buddies from WWII. Name's Volker or somthin'. We sent Erica into his castle as bait. She wasn't too happy about that." Liz saw him smirk a little at the memory.

"What happened?"

"Vampy got a hold of her somehow. But I showed up just in time and I got to kick some major vampire butt."

Liz could hear the pride in his voice and smiled. She had a feeling he might not be telling the whole story, but it was good to hear about what he and the others had been doing. She felt her smile fade as she thought about everyone at the BPRD. She missed them more than she wanted to admit to herself.

"We all wished you were there. I mean, you could'a just incinerated the guy and been done with it—"

Liz interrupted him before he could convince her to go back to the BPRD. "No. No, I'm not coming back," she said quietly, looking down at her lap. She toyed with a loose thread on the cuff of her red hospital issued robe, trying to stop her fingers from straying to the rubber bands on her wrist. She knew Hellboy would flip out if he knew the doctors at Bellamie had her snapping herself with rubber bands so she didn't set the whole building on fire. "I won't," she added.

A large red hand gently tilted her chin up so she was looking Hellboy in the eyes. "You always say that," he said, "And you never mean it."

"I mean it this time," she said firmly. But even she could hear the sadness in her voice.

Hellboy frowned a little. His red flecked gold eyes studied her face with concern. "Liz—"

"Why don't you tell me about tonight?" she asked, trying desperately to change the subject, "How did you get out? You didn't break out again, did you? Manning hates that."

"He hates everythin'," Hellboy said dismissively, "I broke out after I got back from finishin' off some werewolves with Abe and Erica. Clay's on medical leave so Moss was assigned to me. And he was so beat up after the mission he's in the hospital. And there was no one to watch me…it was easy. They probably don't even know I'm gone yet."

She laughed softly and smiled at him. "You're so grounded."

"I know. But it's worth it to see you again," he said softly. He smiled and wrapped his tail around her waist.

She nodded to mask the confusion inside her. She didn't know what she thought about him. She didn't know where she belonged or where she wanted to be. She hated being at the mental hospital. She wasn't crazy. But she _was_ making progress with her pyrokinetic abilities—curse—whatever. She pushed those thoughts out of her head. She just wanted to enjoy the moment with Hellboy.

And that was exactly what she did.

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Professor Broom's Study_

_Morning_

"You're grounded," Broom informed his son. The Professor stood beside his desk, both hands clasped around the top of his cane.

"Again?" Hellboy asked, sounding resigned.

"Yes, _again_," Professor Broom said sternly, "Not only did you damage the building when you broke out, but someone on the street got you on film. Manning threw a fit when he found out."

"Why? He likes bein' on TV."

"Because this is the fifth time you've escaped."

"I just wanted to see her," Hellboy explained. His voice was very quiet.

Professor Broom felt his stern expression soften a little. "I know you miss Liz," he said gently, "But you have to respect her decision to leave the BPRD."

"So what to you want me to do? Never see her again?" Hellboy said. His voice was suddenly tinged with anger. His eyes were like twin burning coals.

Professor Broom didn't back down. He knew from experience how to deal with his son's anger. He was the only one Hellboy would listen to. "Of course not. You just have to be supervised—"

"_Supervised?_ Do you have _any_ idea what it'd be like to be _supervised_ when you're tryin' to have a relationship with someone?"

"I know it's difficult for you. You should talk to Abe. He knows what it's like—"

"_Abe_ wouldn't recognize love if it came up to him and slapped him in the face!" Hellboy hissed cynically, his voice raised.

"We could arrange for Liz to visit—"

That was when the storm broke.

"She won't _come _back! I've _tried!_" Hellboy said. His voice was full of frustration. "That's why I had to break out to go see her!I couldn't even sneak off to see her after the mission because of the _nanny squad!_"

"Those agents are there for your protection—"

"No they're not! They're there for the _public's_ protection! So somebody doesn't have a heart attack if they see me! So people don't find out that I exist! _I_ don't _need_ protection!"

Broom was beginning to lose his patience. "But you do need someone with common sense because you don't have any! I have tried to give you options but you won't even listen!"

"Maybe that's because I want to do somethin' _myself_ for once! I'm not a little kid anymore!"

"Then stop acting like one and start acting like an adult!"

"I _am_ actin' like an adult! Just like one that wants some freedom!"

The Professor slammed the tip of his cane against the floor. "Hellboy!" he said sharply, his voice raised, "That is _enough!_ Go to your room!"

Hellboy's eyes widened as he realized he had gone too far. Regret crossed his face but was quickly swallowed up again by a mixture of anger and frustration.

"Fine," he muttered and stomped towards the doors.

"And you can stay there until I get back!" Broom added.

Hellboy only grunted something in response. The Professor doubted his son had even heard him. _He's so angry he didn't even bother to ask me what I meant by that, _Professor Broom thought. He watched as Hellboy wrenched open one of the doors and went out into the hall where two agents were waiting to escort him. The door slammed shut behind him.

Broom sighed and slowly sank into a chair, already regretting his argument with Hellboy. He knew his son wouldn't believe it, but in the past Broom had had similar arguments with Manning on his son's behalf. If the Head of Special Operations had been anyone else he might have gotten somewhere, but Manning loathed the 'freaks' at the BPRD.

_He certainly works in the wrong place,_ Broom thought.

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He felt as frustrated as his son. He truly wanted Hellboy to be able to live like a normal person, to be able to visit Liz, but with the way things were he couldn't give that to him. _I will do something, though,_ Broom decided, _I want to at least try to do something for him. Before it's too late…if it's what I think it is…_

He heard the soft swish of water and instantly put up mental barriers in his mind. He opened his eyes and saw Abe swimming in the huge aquarium. The fish man hovered in front of the glass with a sympathetic look on his face.

"I heard what happened," he said simply.

The Professor sighed. "I'll talk with him later when he's calmer. Maybe after I get back."

"When you get back?"

"Yes. I'm leaving for New York tomorrow morning on important personal business," Broom said. He felt a little guilty about twisting the truth, but he wasn't ready to tell anyone—not even Abe—the truth. Or what he feared was the truth. "If it wasn't so important I wouldn't leave at such a busy time, but I have no choice. I'll be back in a few hours, though. One of the Agents is going to drive me."

Abe blinked at him and fluttered his gills, looking mystified by his words. _Or by the fact that I'm not telling the whole truth._ Finally Abe nodded at him. Broom was thankful that the fish man didn't try to pry the truth out of him. The Professor stood with some difficultly and leaned on his cane as he limped over to the glass aquarium. The beads of the rosary wrapped around his wrist gently clacked together as he moved. The sound was strangely comforting.

"I've arranged for one of the agents to come in occasionally and turn the pages of your books for you while I'm gone."

"Thank you," Abe replied politely, "But what about Hellboy?"

"Agent Moss has returned from the hospital. He has bandages all over his chest and a few stitches, but he'll recover. He can look after Hellboy until Clay returns. He should be back tomorrow before I am. As for the long term…I've known for some time that we needed Clay to train a replacement for himself. Last night's events, with Agent Moss' injuries and Hellboy's breakout, have thrown that into sharp relief. And Clay has requested that he be transferred to being back in the field. I have a roster of seventy or so academy graduates and I've had one man in mind for a while. I had one of our secretaries call him and offer him the job," Broom smiled at the memory, "Of course he was only informed of generalities, but I think his reaction to his first day here will be a good indicator of whether he's the right one."

"He accepted, then," Abe said.

Broom nodded. "He'll arrive after I get back. Oh, and Hellboy doesn't know yet. Don't tell him. I want it to be a surprise," Broom smiled slightly.

The doors of the study opened and Agent Moss came bursting in with an unbelievable amount of energy for someone who had been attacked by a werewolf and spent the night in the emergency room. Abe stared at the Agent with some surprise. Broom only smiled. He was just happy that Moss had survived the encounter with the werewolf. The Professor dreaded having to inform families that they had lost a member.

"I see you're feeling better," Broom said.

"Yup, practically as good as new," the agent said happily, "Who would've thought?" Moss grinned at them, pure mischief glinting in his eyes.

Abe read the man's thoughts and his eyes widened. "You're having a party in the cafeteria?" he asked.

"Yeah, why not?"

"What about Manning?" Professor Broom asked. His tone was stern but Abe saw the old man's eyes twinkling behind his round spectacles.

"Him?" Moss shrugged, "He can come if he wants. I think we _all_ deserve a little rest and relaxation with how busy we've been. The end is finally in sight! Halloween is tomorrow! So, are you two coming?"

"I'd love to," Broom replied.

Abe thought for a moment. _Why not? I don't have anything better to do. And I might actually enjoy myself._ He nodded and the Agent's smiled widened. Abe could feel his own lips twitch upwards in response. The Agent's good mood was contagious.

"Great! I'll tell the others. Be there at, say, seven?" Without waiting for an answer Agent Moss rushed out the door.

_Why is it no one ever seems to just come in here and sit down for a while?_ Abe mused as he watched the doors swing shut again.

Author's Notes: I hoped you all liked the scene with Liz, and the one with Hellboy's argument with his Father. They were mentioned in the movie, so I thought it would be cool to write about them. Cookies to anyone who can tell me which of the things in the Artifact Hall belongs to Erica! Next chapter Luke's mysterious warning is discussed and we'll finally get into the second, snow covered scene from the movie. The chapter after next (chapter ten) will be about Grigory's Resurrection! Please review!


	9. A Rubik’s Cube and a Little Too Much Cha

**Chapter 9: A Rubik's Cube and a Little Too Much Champagne**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Razvan Arcos the guide, Agent Gail, Luke the werewolf, and the plot that isn't from the movie is mine.

Author's Notes: Thanks again for the reviews! Squee! I think everyone caught onto the roses in the glass case belonging to Erica. This chapter picks up where the last one left off. It's almost party time at the BPRD, and Abe starts thinking about Erica. Both Kroenen and Erica experience some severe déjà vu. And after the party there's a surprise appearance by someone Erica thought was gone forever. German to English translations: 'Ja' is yes, 'Gute nacht' is good night, and 'Mein Gott' is My God. Enjoy the chapter!

**Psycho Clowns:** Eep! Don't faint! It was a really good idea, though.

**musicamode:** Thanks! Yup, it's the roses!

**amyltrer: **Yay! You're the only one who caught onto Luke's warning being about Rasputin's return.

**iluvrocknroll:** Whoa! Big review! Thank you, I often wonder how this story measures up to other fanfiction, since I spend most of my free time writing and practically none reading fanfiction. Also good to know you like all the stuff leading up to the movie, I was wondering if I was dragging it out a bit too long…Hmm, _definitely_ one of the weirdest questions I've ever been asked in a review, if not _the_ weirdest. But that's cool, I like weird questions! As for the answer… who says he doesn't have anything? And if he doesn't, I'm sure he can be _more_ than inventive, no? After all, what's the good of all those improvements if he can't have a little fun every once in a while? Teehee! Bad thoughts…

**Fade: **A new reviewer! Thanks so much! Hehe, forbidden romances, you've gotta love them. As for the action scenes, you won't be disappointed; I have a whole ton of them planned for the upcoming chapters. And of course I'll keep writing, I love to do it, and I love it even more when people enjoy reading what I've written!

"One of the lessons of history is that nothing is often a good thing to do and always a clever thing to say."—Will Durant

_The BPRD_

_Professor Broom's Study_

_Afternoon_

Abe floated aimlessly in his tank, working on his Rubik's Cube. He spun one of the dials around with a webbed hand, hoping to get closer to completing a third side of the cube. Instead he only scrambled the two sides he had already completed. He quickly reversed the dial and floated in the water for a moment, studying the puzzle. He sighed. _What a dilemma, _he thought, _the only way to complete the puzzle is to ruin the sides I already completed. But I'm risking that I'm just going to mess up the whole thing._

He knew there were websites that offered hints and even solutions to the puzzle, but he wasn't interested in them. That would be too easy and wouldn't give him nearly the same satisfaction of completing the Rubik's Cube on his own. _However, I would definitely be able to finish it sooner, _he thought. He considered for a moment and then shook his head. He'd rather puzzle it out on his own. It would give him something to do, anyway.

Abe glanced through the glass aquarium window at the four books sitting on their stands. They had been open to the same page for the past two hours. But of course that was only natural. Professor Broom was busy elsewhere, Hellboy was grounded and confined to his room, and Erica was—well, Abe didn't know, but he knew she was in the building somewhere. _Probably reading one of Shakespeare's plays, _he thought, _Or fixing that music box for one of the agents. Or ripping the alarm system out of her room like she threatened to. _Abe grinned, imagining what Manning's face would look like if he were to find the alarm sitting on his desk in several mangled pieces.

The fish man kicked his feet and moved onto his back so he was looking upwards at the surface of the water. He idly blew a few bubbles and watched them rise to the top of his tank and then pop as they hit the air. He sighed and his gills fluttered slightly. His mind wandered over the party that was planned for the evening. Agent Moss had been right, it _would_ be good to relax. It seemed that no sooner did they deal with one threat and get a chance to sit down then they'd have to rush off to deal with some other fiend from the pits of hell. _It's a pity Hellboy can't attend the party—_ Abe stopped as the memory of Hellboy and Professor Broom's argument washed over him. The fish man winced as he remembered a particular section that had troubled him.

"_I know it's difficult for you. You should talk to Abe. He knows what it's like—"_

"Abe_ wouldn't recognize love if it came up to him and slapped him in the face!" Hellboy said._

Was Red right about him not being able to recognize love? _No, of course he isn't, he was angry and wasn't thinking, _Abe thought, _After all, I can see that Hellboy loves Liz. So logically that means I can recognize love._

_That's not what Hellboy meant and you knew it,_ a voice inside him said sternly, _He meant that you don't know how you feel, when it's obvious to _him_ exactly what's going on._

Abe blinked. It was true. Hellboy _had_ managed to catch onto the fact that he had been letting Erica win chess games, and had seemed to be suggesting… _But it's not true. I don't—that's not why I let her win at chess._ Abe knew that sounded lame. The truth was directly in front of him, staring him in the face. He had a feeling that it had been doing that for a while and he had just been too oblivious or too much in denial to accept it.

_I've been lying to myself, haven't I?_ Abe realized.

That made him think. The reason he let Erica win at chess was the same reason he had been so worried about her safety last night, and that was for the same reason that he had enjoyed that hug so much. It was true that Erica's hug had been the only form of affection he had received in what felt like forever, but there was more to it. Such as why he had been so…whatever it was, when Luke had been blatantly hitting on her, and why he had been so relieved when Erica had turned the werewolf down. Abe was…interested.

_And Erica is too, at least a little,_ he thought, _She definitely likes how I look, anyway. _As he remembered what she had thought when she had seen him sitting in the truck before the mission, he felt a rush of warmth as his skin flushed to a darker blue. Abe shook his head to clear it and discovered to his surprise that he was smiling.

What he really wanted was a good friend—no, not a friend. He and Erica were _already_ good friends. But there was potential there for them to be something more than that—and it was a potential that he would definitely try to pursue.

_The truth doesn't always hurt,_ he thought, and his smile widened.

Abe did a quick little back flip and went somersaulting head over webbed feet through the water before he finally stopped himself. He sobered up for a moment. _Should I tell her?_ he wondered. His stomach did a little flip-flop. He knew he wasn't ready to tell her. _No, I won't tell her yet, _he decided,_ I'll just entertain this idea for a little while and see what happens. Who knows, I might just be deluding myself...but sometimes we have to take risks in order to seek happiness._ He glanced down at the Rubik's Cube in his hand and blinked. _Actually, that can apply to more than just love, _he thought, as he spun one of the Cube's dials. The move scrambled the two sides he had completed, but he was that much closer to finishing the puzzle. Leaving it where it was wouldn't have gotten him anywhere, and the same was true of his friendship with Erica.

_I would never have thought a Rubik's Cube could be so helpful, _Abe thought pensively, _And that's true of Hellboy, too. Who would have thought that big red monkey would catch onto something that I had missed?_

The fish man smiled. He'd have to thank Hellboy later if it occurred to him. Right now he was going to work on the puzzle and look forward to the party. With any luck, Erica would be there and he could…_investigate_ his new idea.

XXXXX

_Birgau Pass, Moldavia_

_Afternoon_

Kroenen was having a good day. Despite having been awakened several hours before sunrise by a knife in his back—courtesy of Ilsa—and having spent the next half hour sewing up the wound, which had ended up very messy and far from his standards of perfection, he had discovered something that made him happy. Very happy.

That is, besides the fact that the snowstorm had disappeared overnight, as Ilsa had predicted it would.

When he had left his room and gone down to the bar he had discovered that a man had been found murdered in the street. With a bit of bribery the weathered bartender, who had the look of someone who loved trading gossip, had told him that the murdered man was an investigator. He had been making inquiries into the murder of a pilot that had been found lying on the runway at the closest airport.

"The investigator was going from door to door early this mornin' and wanderin' the streets, askin' questions," the bartender had whispered in Romanian, leaning forward conspiratorially. The man had stood behind the counter, cleaning a mug with a dirty rag. The mug itself had been filthy and the barman's efforts to clean it had only succeeded in moving the dirt around. "Seems the staff at the airport swore no planes had arrived or left yesterday, and that the airport had been closed. Well, obviously that wasn't true, because the dead pilot was lyin' right next to his plane, which was from somewhere in Norway or somethin'. Anyways, the plane wasn't in the arrival records, and neither were the names or any information about the passengers. And then the investigator turned up dead! Had blunt trauma wounds all over him. Skull smashed in. No witnesses. Not really unusual, actually. Small police force and all that at the base of the mountains. Very ineffective, especially with bar fights… "

The barman had prattled on about difficult customers, but by then Kroenen had left and returned to his room to prepare to leave. That was when he had found fresh, still congealing blood on Ilsa's sledgehammer. Apparently she hated to leave witnesses as much as he did.

But that had been hours ago. Ahead of him he could see Ilsa and the guide trudging through the deep snow. All of them, including Kroenen, were carrying a backpack loaded with equipment. Ilsa's heavy steel sledgehammer was strapped to the side of her pack, its head still covered in dried rust colored blood…and other things. Kroenen smiled inwardly.

_I can't imagine the investigator's death was very swift, _Kroenen thought. Ilsa was as sadistic and bloodthirsty as he was, and even more so when she was so close to reaching a goal. She would do _anything_ to make sure everything went as planned. Grigory Rasputin _would_ be resurrected tonight. Failure was not an option. Nothing would stop them.

Kroenen felt a thrill. They were standing on the brink of attaining what they had worked towards for so long. Grigory would ensure that their efforts to release the Ogdru Jahad were not thwarted again.

But he also felt dread. It sat deep within him as heavy and cold as a block of lead. He knew Grigory was going to punish him. Kroenen had failed his Master. He had failed to detect Erica's treachery, and then he had failed to kill her. And on top of that he had failed to keep the portal open. He could only hope his Master never found out about his 'interfering' with Ilsa.

He shuddered, but it had nothing to do with the falling snow or freezing temperatures. Those didn't bother him. He had only worn the coat and cold weather mask to avoid making the guide suspicious.

Not that Razvan Arcos would ever tell anyone about Ilsa or him.

It was simply standard procedure: kill all witnesses and there was no one to betray information.

His permanent skeletal grin widened ever so slightly, horribly twisting the raw, weeping tissue around his exposed teeth. Murdering Razvan had been a part of their plan all along. Blood and death—as well as the time and place—were essential ingredients in the ritual that would bring Grigory back to them. Kroenen fingered the hilt of a baton sword. The blade had claimed countless lives. The addition of one more would make no difference to him. His soul was as cold and frozen as the inhospitable terrain around him.

As he walked snow fell gently from the overcast sky above him. The small flakes swirled in the air and drifted into snow banks as they were tossed about by an occasional bitter wind. The mountains themselves towered above him on all sides and stretched off into the distance, each of them rocky and sharp like the teeth of a giant beast. Besides snow and rocks the mountains were devoid of anything but a few stunted evergreens. The austere scene was perfectly calm.

It was also vaguely familiar.

_I can't remember being here before,_ he thought. But he still couldn't shake his strong feeling of déjà vu. It was liked he recognized this place from a dream…

Ahead of him the guide suddenly stopped and looked around at the terrain to get his bearings. Ilsa walked up beside Razvan; the old leather book was open in her hands.

"What is it?" she demanded.

Razvan didn't answer her and Ilsa grew impatient as she waited for him to speak. Kroenen stared at them; his clockwork heart seemed to pause. The scene was so hauntingly familiar he felt a shiver go down his back. _This was one of Erica's visions of the future—the one she had at the masquerade ball_, he thought. The scene was so exact and vivid it was like it had been dredged up, torn from his memory, and replayed before his eyes.

"It's this way," Razvan finally said, gesturing, "Not much further."

Ilsa nodded in response and started walking. Kroenen followed slowly—just like he had in Erica's vision from so long ago. He felt the back of his neck tingle like someone was watching him; he turned and looked behind him. He half expected to see a teenage Erica, wearing her fire costume from the masquerade ball, following them through the snow.

But only a swirl of ice crystals existed where she should have been.

He paused for a moment and studied the harsh frozen landscape. It was empty.

_A pity, _he thought, _Then again, she was never a part of that vision._ That was something he remembered had troubled him during WWII—why had he and Ilsa and a guide been in the vision and Erica had not? But he knew the reason now._ I would have saved us so much trouble if I had realized the vision was a warning of her betrayal,_ he thought bitterly.

He clenched his fists as anger boiled up inside him and then looked down as he felt something hard digging into his right palm. His hand was wrapped tightly around the hilt of his baton sword; his body was as intent on vengeance as his mind was. He shook his head to clear it. There would be time for killing later.

They were getting closer.

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_The Cafeteria_

_Late Evening_

"This isn't much of a party," Agent Moss said, studying the BPRD's cafeteria. He sounded a little disappointed. Only a handful of agents had turned out for the event. Most of the agents that could go home had—and that included Manning—and a lot of those that stayed had decided to take the opportunity catch up on their sleep.

"Well, it was very impromptu," Abe pointed out.

They had just arrived and were now surveying the cafeteria. The plastic and metal tables and chairs had been pushed to the sides of the room to make space for an odd collection of mismatched office chairs. The chairs were set up in a rough semicircle around a white screen on the wall. The beginning of a movie was being projected onto the screen with the aid of a laptop and a new, high-tech projector Abe highly suspected had been swiped from one of the meeting rooms. Someone had turned up the volume to the point that it was so loud it was almost uncomfortable but not quite loud enough to complain about. As the previews started most agents took their seats or migrated towards a small table covered in snacks and sodas.

Abe spotted Professor Broom chatting with an agent, but his eyes darted away from them as he searched the room for Erica. To Abe's disappointment she was nowhere in sight. _I am _not_ disappointed,_ he told himself, _I just really, _really_ hoped that she would be here…_

"Hey Abe, why so blue?" Moss asked, grinning.

Abe just stared at him, unamused by the bad joke. Just then the door to the kitchen opened. Erica, wearing a white v-neck T-shirt and black pants, emerged carrying two large glass bowls full of popcorn. She plunked them down on the snack table and swept a strand of her brown hair out of her face. She smiled as she spotted Abe and Agent Moss. Abe smiled back.

"You can have burned or mostly burned," she said, gesturing at the bowls she had brought out. The one on the left was filled with blackened popcorn and was steaming ominously. The other was full of grayish popcorn mixed with some that looked normal.

"Come _on_, Erica, you burned _popcorn?_" one of the other agents said, clearly in disbelief.

"Yup."

Agent Moss experimentally poked the hot, burned popcorn and then quickly yanked his burned finger away, drawing laughter from the watching agents. "Yet another common, everyday item turned deadly," Moss muttered as he blew on his finger. He glanced at the popcorn again. "Erg. I think I'll stick to the chips and salsa."

Erica shrugged. "Suit yourself." She took a handful of the mostly burned popcorn and dumped it on a plate. She saw the tupperware container in Abe's webbed hands. "What's that?" she asked. Abe could tell by the tone in her voice that she had a good idea what might be in it.

"Rotten eggs," he explained.

"I thought so."

"What movie is it?"

She shrugged. "Don't know. Don't care, actually. I didn't come to watch it, I came to play board games."

She gestured at another table. Heaped on top of it were a few long, thin, and battered looking cardboard boxes containing board games. Nearby, four agents had a set of playing cards and were engaged in a friendly game of poker using cheese curls and Erica's burned popcorn as chips.

"Do you want to play chess?" Abe asked, unable to keep the hope out of his voice.

She laughed. "Sure."

A few minutes later they had commandeered a chess set and their own table, and were playing the game and chatting. Abe munched absentmindedly on a rotten egg, much to the dismay of the agents playing cards at the table next to him. Fortunately Erica didn't seem to mind as much as they did.

Abe watched her as she studied the board. He wasn't sure how he felt. He knew he liked her, but was it anything beyond friendship? He didn't know. Erica was pretty, if a bit normal looking—as long as one ignored her scars. _She has nice eyes too…_he thought.

"Poor Hellboy," Erica sighed. She ran a hand through her hair. "I know he misses Liz. We all do, but especially him. And now he's been grounded for breaking out to see her. And on top of that he's missing this party _and_ he's going to have a new liaison he doesn't even know about." She nudged one of her pawns forward and went back to sorting through her plate of popcorn for the unburned bits.

"And the new agent has no idea what we do. At least, not yet," Abe said.

Erica laughed. "Just _wait_ until he meets us. I bet his eyes will be as big as saucers."

Her smile faded a little. Abe knew she was thinking about how they would have to put up with the new agent's questions about themselves. And that sort of questioning had a tendency to dredge up all kinds of unpleasant memories and self doubts for all of them. Abe smiled slightly at her, hoping to ease the gloom that had filled her grey eyes. They had been so bright and beautiful before…_Stop that!_ He reprimanded himself, _I shouldn't stare at her like that, she might figure out that I…but I'm not sure that I do. I'm still just investigating, and that's _all

"Just don't tell Hellboy," he said lamely. He mentally cursed at himself, knowing he should have said something more comforting. _But she can take care of herself,_ he thought, _And if I start acting too concerned…_

"I couldn't tell him even if I wanted to; they've put a new door on his room that looks like the door of a bank vault. It's got some sort of weird key and everything. I don't think he can smash through that one; next time he'll have to go through a wall. I kind of feel sorry for whoever is going to be taking over from Clay. Besides Hellboy being grounded and angry, the new agent is going to be walking right into something that looks like it's going to be one hell of a mess before we get through it."

"Based on the warnings?" Abe asked. He moved his bishop forward and captured Erica's castle. She frowned a little as he added it to the growing pile of pieces he had taken.

"Ja. You know we don't like patterns," she said.

Abe had to agree with that. Patterns always meant something terrible was heaving its bulk out of some abyss to cause tons of trouble. "I wouldn't jump to any conclusions, but things aren't looking good," Abe said, "First the vampire sent after you by the remaining members of the Thule Occult Society—who hadn't been heard from in years—and then Luke leaves us with that warning that doesn't make any sense at all." He paused for a moment as he remembered the two incidents. "There's a meeting scheduled for tomorrow morning for the post-werewolves mission. I imagine the warnings will be brought up."

Erica nodded and picked up one of her pawns, moving it so she captured Abe's bishop. "I just hope—"

"Champagne?" a woman asked, interrupting Erica.

It was Agent Gail. She was holding a stack of large red and white plastic cups in one hand and a wine bottle in her other. "I dug it out of the kitchen," she said, "There's a couple more bottles back there."

"Champagne, popcorn, and salsa. Nice," said one of the agents playing cards.

"Well, cheap champagne at any rate," Agent Gail said.

Abe smiled a little at the incongruous mix of foods. _In a way they sort of reflect the mix of people at the BPRD, _he thought.

"So, do you want some?" the Agent asked.

"Just a little bit," Abe replied, figuring he would at least try some. Gail poured a little into a plastic cup and handed it to him.

"Erica?"

"Er, no, I don't think so." A slight grimace crossed her face; the expression was contorted even more by the scar on her cheek.

Abe, buoyed up by the cheerful mood, smiled at her. "Go ahead Erica," he encouraged.

"Alright, maybe just a little," Erica said, looking very reluctant. She watched as Agent Gail began filling her cup. When the champagne passed the halfway mark in the cup Erica protested. "Hey, I said a _little!_" By then the cup was full to the brim. Agent Gail shrugged and grinned.

"We're all here to loosen up," she said, "And besides, you don't have to drink it all if you don't want to."

As the woman left Erica muttered something under her breath in German and looked at the cup of champagne as if it contained demons.

"What is it?" Abe asked.

"Nothing," she said evasively. Her German accent was more pronounced than usual; it always was when she was worried. "Bad memories. Nothing I feel like talking about. It's your turn, by the way." As Abe moved his castle she hesitantly took a sip of the champagne.

The silence between them stretched on for a moment, so long that Abe became very aware of the sounds of the movie playing in the background and the bubbling of his respirator. The silence wasn't awkward, but Abe felt guilty for dragging up memories of Erica's past that she would clearly have preferred to forget. "Isn't it nice to have a night where we're not worried about anything?" he finally asked.

Erica brightened up immediately. "Yeah. Why do all the monsters always come out at night anyway? I mean, can't they be more _original?_ In the past few weeks we've had to deal with a ghoul, a couple of hauntings, a vampire, and three werewolves, all at night." She grimaced. "Our lives sound like the summery for a bad horror movie."

"At least we don't get bored," Abe pointed out.

XXXXX

_Birgau Pass, Moldavia_

_Late Evening_

Razvan Arcos trudged through the snow. The rock walls towered above him. Though it was late evening the cloud covered sky was as grey as ever.

They were close to the Old Place described in the blond woman's book. _I wonder what's in that book, _Razvan thought. But it was none of his concern. And he didn't really care. The woman and her companion were more than paying for him to put up with their oddities. He was more concerned in leading them where they wanted and getting back quickly. This part of the mountains was no place to linger in; ghost stories surrounded the area and told of the horrible fates that befell the curious that dared to trespass there.

Razvan shivered and glanced around him, checking instinctively for any ghosts or monsters that might be stalking them through the snow. Thankfully there was nothing. He stepped down a series of snow covered rocks, his eyes locked on the narrow opening in the rock face ahead. He turned to the two behind him.

"What you seek is in there," Razvan said. He gestured down the passage with a hand covered by a fur mitten.

The woman—_What was her name?_ he wondered, _Ah, Ilsa_—stepped up beside him and brushed at the snow that covered the rock on the right side of the opening of the passage. As the snow fell away it revealed a strange symbol chiseled deep into the stone of the mountain. Razvan watched with curiosity as Ilsa consulted the leather bound book she held in her hand. He had to squint to see the pages in the blue, dying light of evening, but his eyes lingered on the hand drawn illustrations and followed the strange handwritten words. He didn't recognize the language.

Ilsa swept some snowflakes off the parchment pages and then looked up and motioned at the guide to move. The symbol carved into the stone had matched the description in the book. She would lead the way from here.

The narrow passage ran for some length and then widened out and ended abruptly at a wall of rock hung with sheets of ice. It was a dead end. And it was exactly what Ilsa had been looking for. She stepped up to a thick vertical sheet of ice that clung to the rocks. A bluish light shone through it, indicating that there was a large space of some sort on the other side. Ilsa ran a gloved hand over the ice. Even without the book she would have known instinctively that this was what she was looking for: an opening frozen over by the passing centuries. She took her fingers away from the cold, frozen surface and tucked the book safely away inside her jacket. Then she unstrapped her heavy, square-headed steel hammer from her backpack. The business end of it still had remnants of dried blood on it from the murder she had committed that morning. She grasped the long shaft of the hammer with both hands and then swung the hammer at the ice.

CRUNCH!

The hammer drove into the ice, knocking a fist sized hole in it and sending huge cracks racing through it. She swung the hammer again. The ice broke into chunks and then crumbled, creating an opening just large enough for her and the others to walk through.

She stepped through and found herself inside a rough walled corridor. Even here there was a thin dusting of snow on the ground. She pulled a flashlight from her belt and turned it on; the white beam lit up the dim interior. Another beam of light—Kroenen's—joined hers as it played over the rock walls, causing sheets of ice to shine eerily and ice crystals to sparkle. In the absolute silence their footsteps were disturbingly loud; even Kroenen's raspy breathing was unnaturally audible as the sound echoed off the cave walls.

Ilsa stopped on a ledge above a long set of stone stairs reminiscent of the steps of Mayan pyramids. The view was breathtaking. The cave was enormous and could easily have held a stadium. Huge icicles hung from the roof of ice more than a quarter of a mile above the cave floor. A cold blue light filtered down through the thick ice and streamed down on the magnificent labyrinth below it. Around the maze the rock walls towered above the cave floor.

"I will guide you no further."

The guide's voice broke the stillness and called Ilsa's attention to the fact that he was standing beside her. She could see from what little of his face was exposed that he was scared. _He's heard too many ghost stories, _she thought, _And he better change his mind because I don't want to drag him all the way there. He's coming whether he wants to or not. _She looked back at Kroenen. Despite the fact that her face was covered by a cold weather mask he seemed to get her message.

Kroenen reached into a pocket of his coat and pulled out two gold ingots—the guide's promised payment. He handed one to the guide and then put the other back in his pocket. The message was clear: Razvan would be paid only half of the promised price if he didn't continue leading the way. The guide examined his gold greedily; avarice got the better of his fear and trepidation. He pocketed the gold and then nodded at them.

"This way," he said, starting down the stairs.

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_The Cafeteria_

_Night_

Abe stared at the chessboard in disbelief. Erica had just placed her bishop on a square where at least three of his pieces could take it. The game had started out fairly even, with both of them taking each other's pieces, but over the last hour Erica had steadily started to lose. Rapidly. She kept making unintelligent moves.

The fish man briefly wondered if it was some sort of strategy to lure him into a false sense of security. _No, she doesn't have enough pieces in the right places to pull something off like that,_ he decided. Another thought struck him as he remembered his conversation with Hellboy in Broom's study. _Does she know I've been letting her win?_ He felt his stomach drop at that thought. He looked up at her and saw she was watching the movie as she waited for him to move one of his pieces. There was no hint in her face or in her thoughts that she suspected he had been letting her win. Actually, he noticed her thoughts were unusually blank and far away.

He watched her for a moment and noticed that her eyes weren't focused. She wasn't really watching the movie; she was staring off into space.

"Erica."

She didn't turn to look at him. He reached out and touched her arm gently with his webbed hand. Erica jumped but her reaction was a little delayed.

"What?" she asked.

"You're not paying attention," Abe said. He pointed at the board and particularly at the bad move she'd made.

"Oh," she stared blearily at the board, leaning her head on her hand, "Ja, that was kind of stupid of me. Or you. Or whoever did that. I can't remember."

Abe blinked at her in confusion. He became concerned, though, as Erica leaned over the table and dropped her head into her hands, hiding her face. "Abe, I don't feel so good," she muttered through her fingers and her curtain of brown hair.

Now suspicious, Abe picked up her plastic cup, which Agent Gail had filled to the brim with champagne an hour or so ago. The cup was completely empty.

"Erica, I believe you might be a bit tipsy," Abe said gently. He was trying to be as tactful as possible.

"Hmm. That might explain why I haven't felt like this since...since that party Ilsa had at the mansion. Someone had the bright idea to spike my drink that night," she raised her head and frowned, "I think it might have been Kroenen. Never found out for sure, though. Turns out I have little to no tolerance for alcohol at all." She smiled and then winced. "God, my head hurts! I definitely think I'm drunk. At least a little."

"Come on, I'll take you to your room," Abe offered, helping her up.

"Having a little too much fun?" Agent Gail called, approaching them, "Or off to have some?" She winked at them.

Abe blushed at her comment but chose to ignore it. He steered Erica toward the door of the cafeteria. Gail followed, laughing. "So, Erica, feeling a little sozzled?" she asked.

"It's Abe's fault I'm drunk," Erica muttered defensively.

The fish man looked at her indignantly and then paused as it occurred to him that she was at least partly right. He shrugged and spread his webbed fingers in a gesture of helplessness and embarrassment. "She has a point. I _did_ encourage her to drink the champagne."

"Huh. Who would've thought one glass would…?" Agent Gail said, trailing off as she looked at Erica.

"Well, it was a _very_ _large_ glass, if you remember," Abe reminded her sternly. He opened the cafeteria door and pushed Erica through.

Gail laughed nervously. "I guess you're right. Sorry about—"

Abe closed the door in Gail's face, cutting off her apology. Strangely he discovered he didn't feel guilty about doing it.

A few minutes later Abe had assisted Erica through the halls. He stood in front of the door to Erica's room, letting her lean on him as she fumbled with a key and unlocked the door. _She really doesn't need much champagne to make her drunk, _he thought. He knew how she felt—she really did feel terrible. She was dizzy enough that it made his own head spin a little.

"Try to get some sleep," he suggested as she stepped inside, "And go to the Medical Bay if you start feeling worse."

Erica nodded and started to close the door.

"By the way, I'm sorry," he added. He really did feel guilty about her being slightly drunk.

Erica sighed and looked at him. "It's not your fault, Abe, it's mine. I'm just not thinking straight…Thank you for helping me. Gute nacht."

She closed the door and walked over to her canopy bed, swaying a little. She flopped down on the edge of it and sat there clutching her pounding head in her hands.

"Ja. Definitely drunk," she muttered to herself as she awkwardly kicked off her shoes. _I should have known better, _she thought, _I learned that lesson in Germany. Too many people tried to get me drunk so they could kill me…and then there was that time Kroenen spiked my drink…it's never worth losing self control. _Without bothering to change into her pajamas she lay down and turned off the light on her nightstand and rested her head on her soft pillow. She closed her eyes.

Her headache only got worse as she lay there. Eventually she peeked through her eyelids at the digital clock on her bedside table. The green glowing numbers were too bright and she quickly closed her eyes again. For a second she saw the green glow swimming in front of her eyes on the inside of her eyelids, and then it was gone. Feeling restless, she turned over on her side and got comfortable. She lay there for what felt like hours, but before she knew it, she had fallen into a fitful sleep.

XXXXX

The next thing Erica knew, she was outside. She also knew she was dreaming.

Curious, she looked around. She was standing in a courtyard paved with cobblestones encrusted with moss and lichens. The courtyard appeared to be in the middle of a garden—except that all of the plants were withered and brown. The only things that were flourishing were some large poisonous mushrooms and fungi clinging to some rotting trees.

Erica stared up at the rotting, leafless trees that stretched freakishly gnarled branches towards an overcast twilight sky. _This is so familiar, _she thought, _I think_ _I've been here before. But when?_

Shadows and a half dead curtain of ivy that resembled cobwebs clung to the old stone walls that surrounded the garden. A cold breeze darted in over the high walls and rustled through the dried remains of ornamental grasses. Above her the dark clouds raced each other across the sky and darted away from the claw-like branches of the trees reaching out to snag them. Distant thunder rumbled ominously like the growling of a cornered beast. Erica shivered as the breeze whipped her brown hair into her face and goosebumps appeared on her arms. She could smell the storm coming. She wrapped her arms around herself to keep warm. _This is such a lonely place, _she thought, _It's like a forgotten graveyard._

She heard the trickle and splash of water coming from somewhere behind her and turned around—and stared as she recognized the fountain standing a few meters away from her. The grotesque gargoyle in the fountain's center grasped a jar in its claws; a foul, thick black liquid spouted from the jar instead of water. Her eyes followed the liquid as it fell into a wide, deep stone basin that had algae and lichens all over its cracked, grey surface. With horror dawning on her, Erica's eyes were drawn back to the gargoyle and the twisted smile of insanity on its stone lips. She shuddered and this time it had nothing to do with this cold breeze.

_No, _she thought, _it can't be—_

As if drawn by some invisible force, her eyes slowly looked up and to the left. Erica dreaded what she would see but knew instinctively that it would be there. And it was. An hourglass as big as a man floated in midair.

Erica got a sick feeling in her stomach. She knew all too well where she was. "Mein Gott," she whispered, horrified.

"Save you prayers. Your god doesn't exist here," a familiar voice spat from behind her.

Erica whirled around.

No more than five feet away from her stood a tall, thin man whose entire body was made of shifting shadows of varying darkness. He had no face. His arms were crossed and he was leaning casually against the fungus covered trunk of one of the trees. Everything about him oozed arrogance and utter confidence in himself; shadows surrounded him and made the area beneath the tree as dark as if it still had leaves.

Erica felt fear flood her body as suddenly as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over her head. She knew who the person was: the Shadow Man.

The Shadow Man slowly turned his head to face her and the flickering shadows of his featureless, blank face squirmed and rearranged into something that vaguely passed for indistinct facial features. Erica felt her heart stop.

"Hello, _Acire_," he hissed. He smiled cruelly at her, the shadows of his face contorting and shifting to somehow express his emotions. "Did you miss me?"

Author's Notes: Major Cliffhanger! The Shadow Man is back! But why? That and more in the next chapter, including the thing you've all been waiting for: Grigory's Resurrection! And Erica and Kroenen's first confrontation! Yay! Actually, that's not a good thing, because he wants to kill her…excuse me while I wander off babbling nonsense to myself…Please tell me what you think about Abe finally entertaining thoughts about Erica. And please review! It makes me very happy!


	10. May Darkness Prevail!

**Chapter 10: May Darkness Prevail!**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, the Shadow Man, Razvan Arcos the guide, and the plot that isn't from the movie are mine.

Author's Notes: A HUGE thank you to those who reviewed! Sorry about the long wait for this chapter when the last chapter had a cliffhanger ending. What can I say, high school seniors are extremely busy! So here is the long awaited chapter—I think you all know what's coming by now! Here is the only German to English translation: '_Geh' zur Hölle'_ is 'Go to Hell'. Enjoy the chapter!

**vihnanime:** Yeah, gotta love (or hate!) those cliffhangers.

**Psycho Llama:** Thanks for the ton of reviews, they made me really happy! Kroenen spiking her drink…I have a feeling there's a story behind that I should address at some point. Sounds funny! I do enjoy writing in suspense and subplots, and of course Abe's confused thoughts! Erica actually _is_ dizzy from Rasputin being back, but in this chapter you'll find out _exactly_ why she feels dizzy.

**musicamode:** The Shadow Man is back! And just wait until you see what he's up too!

**iluvrocknroll:** Are you reading my mind? All that time analyzing text in English must have paid off—you're dead on! And yeah, that kind of love triangle sounds deadly at the very best.

**Fade:** I like writing in twists, especially by bringing back unexpected characters. And Erica and Kroenen's first meeting is VERY intense, as you expected!

**amyltrer: **I liked the Rubik's Cube analogy too…it took me a while to come up with, and actually happened after I was playing with one!

"May your god go with you in all the damned places that you walk. Soon, such places shall be all there are."—From "Curtain Call" in _Dracula in London_

"The report of my death was an exaggeration."—Mark Twain

_The Dead Garden_

_Night_

As the Shadow Man uttered her true name, Erica grimaced as if he had struck her with a whip. The Shadow Man's lips slid up in a satisfied smirk.

"I've been waiting to do that to you for _years_," he said.

Erica stared at him, unable to look away. He was far worse than she remembered him, almost as if his years in exile had concentrated him. He was so cold and so empty, like a bottomless abyss. The very wrongness of it froze her blood. He was pure Evil.

"You!" she exclaimed.

"What? Surprised to see me? I did promise that I would come to you."

The memory of the last time they had met flashed through her mind:

_"Some ideals are worth dying for," she said, "I would rather die than lose my soul to you!"_

_"We'll see about that," the Shadow Man said as he slowly backed away from her, "You may have rejected me for now, but you'll be back, I know you'll be back. You can never be completely rid of me—I am a part of you, as I am of every human being."_

"_I'll resist you."_

"_We shall see," he whispered, melting into the shadows beneath the twisted trees, "We shall see. Even if you don't come to me, I will come to you. Either way you can be sure that I'll be back."_

"_Is that a threat?" _

"_No. It's a promise," he hissed._

The Shadow Man's smug voice interrupted the memory. "Ah, see? I knew you would remember."

"How did you get here?" Erica demanded, "I banished you!"

The Shadow Man chuckled darkly and he idly picked at the bark of the rotting tree he was leaning against. Evil leaked past his nearly featureless exterior and radiated from him in waves of cold. Thunder rumbled overhead; the storm was getting closer.

"You cannot banish something that is a part of your nature. Oh, don't even contemplate trying that whole 'true name' routine again. You won't get rid of me that easily; I'm in your blood."

She stared at him in confusion, feeling helpless and stupid. "What?"

The Shadow Man turned back to face her with a knowing smile on his lips. "The darkness in your blood awakened again and let me in."

"My blood?" Suddenly she understood. "You mean the blood in my veins from Kroenen and Ilsa? That blood bond is active again?" Impulsively she looked down at the faint, thin scars on the palm and wrist of her left hand—all that remained of her initiation into the Thule Occult Society.

"That would be telling, wouldn't it?" A slight smile hovered on his lips. He was obviously enjoying frustrating her.

Erica knew she was right. For a moment she ignored the Shadow Man and ran a hand through her wind tossed hair as she tried to think. If the blood bond was active again that presented some very scary possibilities. _Kroenen or Ilsa could have been 'eavesdropping' on my emotions and god-only-knows-what-else without me ever knowing it._

"Truth be told, the blood bond was never _inactive_," the Shadow Man explained, "You weren't using it and neither were your _dear_ friends Kroenen and Ilsa. At least not on purpose."

_Well, that's some small comfort—wait, 'weren't' is past tense,_ she realized. "Are they using it now?" she asked, suddenly afraid of what they might be trying to do to her.

"Possibly." The shadows of his face contorted into a repulsive grin. "But why so concerned about them? You and I have _so much_ to talk about," he said, his voice hissing unpleasantly. He walked towards her slowly, gracefully; the shadows beneath the tree drained away from the rotting wood and glided across the ground with him. Erica's eyes darted from the Shadow Man's almost-face to the slithering, bubbling shadows pooling around his feet.

She turned to run—in an impossible move he was suddenly directly in front of her. Erica lurched backwards to avoid running into him and he circled around her, drawing closer with each purposeful, threatening step as if she were the center of a spiral.

"We have so much to catch up on; to discuss. A lot has happened since we parted last. Betraying the Thule Occult Society and the Nazis? It really is terrible, the things you do when I'm not around to guide you. But you'll come to regret it."

"I seriously doubt it."

"Really," he said, his voice like black oil. Quicker than she could move he was behind her, speaking over her shoulder. "Then it won't disturb you to hear that seven of my dear friends have been waiting for you. They are…_displeased_ with you."

Though his words froze her blood she tried to put up a brave front; she arched an eyebrow. "Displeased? Is that all they are?"

"Ever the bold one, aren't you? At least you don't make some pitiful attempt to deny what you've done," he said, sliding back in front of her. The shadows around his legs poured across the cobblestones and along every crack and crevice between them; Erica noticed with alarm that they were headed towards her bare feet.

"It is not in the Ogdru Jahad's nature to be forgiving. They _will_ have your blood and they _will_ destroy your soul," he said, "Unfortunate, really. It creates such a conflict of interest between me and them."

Erica was tired of playing games. "Why? What do you want?" she asked warily. The unpleasant answer hovered in the back of her mind. _My soul, _she thought, _he still wants my soul._

"Don't play the fool, it doesn't suit you," he spat, leaning towards her so he was in her face, "But I'll humor you. You already know what I want."

She desperately wanted to deny it. She jumped as silver lightening flashed blindingly just beyond the garden walls. Thunder cracked sharply; the storm had almost reached the garden. Erica swallowed thickly as she looked up at the Shadow Man's constantly shifting face. She knew he could feel her breath. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, forcing the words out.

The Shadow Man snarled angrily; his horrible, contorted expression froze her in place. Before she could react, the Shadow Man's fingers closed on her wrists. His hands, as strong as steel and as cold as ice, held her wrists in a crushingly tight grip that made her bones ache. He violently slammed her body against a slimy, black tree trunk stinking of dry rot.

"I have grown impatient with waiting, _Acire_," the Shadow Man hissed into her face; his breath was as bitterly frosty as the wind in winter. He crushed her wrists against the rough tree bark and dug his fingernails into her skin.

Erica was terrified; her heart hammered in her chest as adrenaline pumped through her veins. Shadows, as cold as metal left in a freezer, slowly wrapped around her ankles and began climbing up her legs. A memory of Grigory surrounding her with similar shadows flashed in her mind; she tried to scream but her throat constricted until she could barely breathe.

"You've always longed to return to me and the blackness that welcomes you with open arms! At night when you should be sleeping you lie awake, wishing that I had taken your soul! Don't deny it!" yelled the Shadow Man.

Just as suddenly as his anger had flared up, it disappeared; the harsh, shadowy lines of his face melting away into a calmer exterior. He slowly let go of her wrists and then stepped back a few paces; the shadows around his feet slowly unwound from her legs. His chest heaved from his outburst. Erica could only stare at him, her back pressed against the rough tree bark. The skin on her legs tingled numbly like it had been plunged into water in the Arctic Circle.

The Shadow Man cleared his throat and then continued in an arrogant tone flecked with bitterness. "It doesn't matter. I can't have what I want, though it has nothing to do with your determination. Grigory Rasputin will never want or take you back. And when Rasputin has you sacrificed I certainly can't have your soul _then_, can I? The Ogdru Jahad will have it for _themselves_. And as much as I'd like to have your soul, if I can't, I'd be more than satisfied with helping Rasputin to destroy it."

"But…he's dead." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

The Shadow Man laughed. "Not as dead as you'd like to think. You of all people should know that."

She felt her stomach knot at his words. _I really don't like that answer, _she thought. "You didn't come here to warn me," Erica said, "Why are you here?"

"To torment you," he said simply, "And to force you to realize that I'm still here, that you _want_ darkness and always will."

"You're delusional. I don't _want_ anything to do with you."

The Shadow Man only sighed; it was a horrible hissing sound. "When will you stop lying to yourself, _Acire?_ As much as I like liars, you aren't doing anything constructive." He smiled; it was terrible, like a distorted, wavy line in polished obsidian. "But you'd never give me the satisfaction of admitting I'm right, would you? You're too stubborn for that. No matter. You'll find the truth for yourself."

Suddenly he cocked his head to the side as if he could hear something she couldn't. A broad smile flickered over his almost-lips.

"It seems you will be leaving me. Apparently you have places to be, old friends to see again…" he trailed off and laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "A pity, I was looking forward to spending some quality time with you. But this is going to be your night for renewing old acquaintances, no?"

_What is he talking about?_ Erica wondered. Her stomach twisted; something was wrong—horribly, _terribly_ wrong.

"Come now, _Acire_, I wouldn't want you to be late," the Shadow Man said, stalking towards her. Shadows poured along the ground, following him.

Erica's unease mutated into bubbling fear and panic and she pushed away from the tree and backed away. Her eyes frantically searched her surroundings for a way to escape. The high, stone garden walls loomed in the darkness; there was no gate in them. The ivy clinging to the walls whispered and rustled as the wind rushed through it on its way to toss and sway the freakishly gnarled branches above her. A drop of rain hit the cobblestones, leaving a dark stain that was quickly swallowed by the writhing shadows clawing their way towards Erica.

She continued to back away; the shadows flowed towards her with an air of purpose and hemmed her in on three sides like thick, black spider web. Behind her Erica heard the trickle and splash of falling liquid; the shadows were herding her towards the fountain!

Her heart, which had been working overtime since she had first recognized the dead garden, suddenly began to beat even faster. She didn't know how that was possible, but figured that being cornered against a fountain by a man made of shadows had something to do with it. Her body temperature skyrocketed, but she shivered despite the heat. Rain splashed against her skin. Her blood rushed through her veins at a dizzying pace, and she could feel every beat of her heart in her chest and at the back of her head, where each beat was slowly making her head pound with pain again. She swayed a little and put a hand to her forehead as her vision blurred at the edges.

"Why Erica, feeling a little sick?" the Shadow Man mocked, "I can't say I'm surprised. Being forced to be in two places at once can't be all that pleasant."

_What?_ Erica thought. But she was all too aware of the trap she was falling into, and she pushed her thoughts away. She forced herself to focus and faked trying to run left. The Shadow Man leaned left—Erica quickly ran to the right. She felt an overwhelming sense of darkness and evil rushing towards her—she clumsily jumped over a rope of shadow that was swinging towards her. Instantly the pain in her head tripled and the garden began to spin and swim before her eyes. Disoriented, she staggered—she felt biting cold as the Shadow Man's hands easily closed around her wrists. Her stomach lurched as she felt his icy shadow-skin moving and shifting against hers.

He leaned down so their faces were only inches apart; cold rolled off him in waves. It was like a blizzard brushing over her skin; her face was going numb and she could feel her lips turning blue.

"Care for a swim?" he asked, somehow managing to smirk at her.

He forced her backwards until her legs ran into the fountain's basin; the back of her legs felt cold where they were pressed against the stone. She shuddered as she heard the thick liquid splashing behind her. _Is he going to drown me? _she thought. She started to panic; she knew he was strong enough to do it.

The Shadow Man's face that wasn't a face leaned down until it was almost touching hers; he gazed at her with his soulless eyes. Erica's breath came in short, frightened gasps.

"Say hello for me, won't you?" he asked.

Without waiting for an answer he pushed her backwards into the fountain. Erica shrieked and her arms flailed as she tried to grab the edge of the stone basin. For a split second she saw the fountain's gargoyle grinning down at her, and then she hit the thick black liquid and sank. She held her breath, expecting the Shadow Man to reach in and hold her under. When that didn't happen she kicked her feet and tried to swim upwards. Instead she continued to sink.

Erica opened her eyes—she had fallen much further than she should have. Her surroundings were pitch black, and when she stretched out her legs and felt around with her toes she couldn't find the bottom. She didn't even seem to be surrounded by water. Her lungs aching for air, she cautiously breathed in, and then again when she didn't choke on water. In the darkness and silence she could hear her pounding pulse. Her throbbing headache made pain lance through her eyes. The blood rushing in her veins sounded like water flowing violently over rapids, dragging her towards the edge of a waterfall with such force that she was helpless to resist—there was a sudden, sharp lurch in her stomach. Suddenly she could see again.

Erica squinted at the sudden reappearance of light and shielded her eyes with one hand. She sighed with relief as she realized her headache and dizziness had vanished. _Where am I now? _Wherever she was it was bitterly cold. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the light and the scene before her came into focus.

She wasn't in the dead garden or her bedroom.

She was in a cave, surrounded by ancient, simplified human figures carved from stone and covered in snow and ice. Cold blue light filtered down from somewhere high above her. Her bare feet were freezing cold, and when she looked down she saw she was standing on a stone floor dusted with snow and sparkling ice crystals. She stared at her feet. She could see through them! She held up her hands; they were the same, and so was the rest of her body. She was barely there at all, almost like she was a ghost.

_A_ cold _ghost,_ she thought, shivering in her T-shirt and pants. She wrapped her bare arms around herself and stamped her feet a little to get them off the freezing stone floor. Her teeth chattered and she clamped her jaw shut to stop it. _Am I dreaming? Or is this a vision that came on its own, like the one caused by my silver crucifix? I certainly felt bad enough for it to be._ Erica rubbed her transparent hands together and blew on them, noticing how pale they were from the cold.

_If this is a dream, why can't I dream about somewhere nice and warm?_

She looked around the room to see if there was anything to keep her warm. The perfectly circular room was empty except for the steps below her that went all the way around the room. In the center of the room were some strange, wavy grooves carved into the floor that led to a shallow basin. Erica stared at the grooves, an uneasy feeling in her stomach.

_For sacrifice, _a voice in her head whispered.

Erica shuddered, and not just because of the temperature. Beneath the sterile, cold smell of stone and ice was the smell of old blood.

Footsteps muffled by snow disturbed the silence. Erica looked up and saw three figures coming toward her down a curving passage. Two of them were dressed in black, and the other, clearly a guide, was wearing furs and leather. All three had their faces covered. Erica stared at them, debating whether to call out to them. The figure in front, dressed in black and carrying an open book, looked right at her but made no sign that he had seen her.

Erica looked down at her transparent body. _I'm invisible?_

XXXXX

_Birgau Pass, Moldavia_

_A Cave_

_Late Evening_

Ilsa slowly led the way, the snow crunching under her boots as she walked. Behind her Razvan's walking stick made a soft, hollow thud as it struck the stone floor beneath the thin layer of snow, and Kroenen's presence at the end of the line was only betrayed by the rasping of his breathing. But all those sounds were small and muted, as if muffled by the absolute silence and huge scale of the architecture in the cave. With her face encased in her cold weather mask Ilsa's breathing was loud in her ears; a combination of her excitement and the thick tension in the air that pressed in from all sides and exerted a strong pressure on her lungs.

She looked down at the book she held, and with a gloved finger she traced the symbols surrounding the hand drawn picture on the yellowed page. She read the arcane language over and over and over again; there could be no mistakes. Ilsa glanced ahead and saw an opening in the passage: they had reached the center of the labyrinth. Smiling craftily, she stepped aside and allowed the guide to pass her. Razvan was too awestruck by the scenery to think anything of it and continued walking, oblivious that he was walking to his doom. _Like a lamb to the slaughter, _Ilsa thought. She smiled cruelly—now that they were behind him Razvan had no chance of escaping.

Kroenen stepped up beside her and nodded slightly; Ilsa couldn't tell if it was in approval or simply a gesture of reassurance, but it didn't matter.

They both stopped on the threshold of the circular room. Five steps went all the way around the room and led down to a snow dusted stone floor covered in grooves radiating from a shallow basin. Ilsa looked up at the faceless stone statues towering above her; it felt like they were watching her. The air was tense with waiting. _Here we go, _she thought, taking a deep breath in a futile attempt to slow the excited pounding of her heart.

Erica was only a short distance away from the opening in the wall. She watched as the three figures surveyed the round room. Something just didn't feel right. The place was thick with tension that was growing stronger by the second. Erica had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach as she looked at the guide; she knew instinctively that something bad was going to happen.

The guide walked forward, gazing up at the strange architecture. He was so close that Erica could have reached out and touched him as he passed. "This is a sacred place," the guide said, his accented voice full of awe. He started down the stairs and stopped just short of the last step. One of the figures in black followed him, the one with a book stayed on the threshold. The guide set down his backpack and took off his hat, still staring at the room. His snow goggles flashed in the cold blue light. "Give me my gold. We shouldn't be here."

Kroenen's fingers curled around the small bar of gold he held in his hand; he had anticipated the guide's words long before they had been spoken. _Greedy men are always predictable,_ he thought. He tossed the gold over Razvan's shoulder; there was a metallic clink as the gold struck a stone step. As the man bent down to pick up the gold Kroenen's hand immediately went to the hilt of his baton sword. The anticipation of the easy kill made him wish he had lips so he could smile. _No one turns their back on me if they want to live,_ he thought.

Razvan Arcos slowly bent down and picked up the small bar of gold, noticing the swastika stamped into the surface for the first time. He ran the thumb of his fur glove over its lustrous surface. _Who are these people? _He wondered, _Where did they get this? Are they Nazis? _Razvan's stomach knotted as he began to realize bringing them here was probably a mistake, no matter how much they had offered. He had no idea what their true intentions were—

The blade of Kroenen's baton sword hissed through the air as he drew it from its sheath and plunged it into Razvan's back. The scar tissue and raw flesh around Kroenen's mouth contorted into a wide skeletal grin as he felt the blade go through the man's body. Razvan's brief, hoarse gasp of surprise and pain was music to Kroenen's ears. Truly there was nothing like a job well done.

Erica gritted her teeth to stop herself from shrieking in surprise at the sudden murder. Her skin, already covered in goose bumps from the cold, crawled from the man's dying gasp. Nauseating fear bubbled up inside her as she recognized Kroenen—she knew that the man in black had to be Kroenen, he was the only other person that used baton swords. _Oh my god, _she thought. All she could think about was the last time they had seen each other—when he had tried to murder her. _I have to get away, _she thought frantically, _He'll kill me! _But she stayed frozen in place, watching as Kroenen smoothly pulled his blade from the man's body and allowed the man to fall to the floor with a sickening thud.

_He'll kill me if he sees me, _she thought frantically, _I have to—wait, he didn't see me when he and the others came in._ She looked down at herself; she was still transparent. _Maybe he _can't_ see me. Maybe this is a vision of some sort? But I thought the Ogdru Jahad were preventing me from using my visions to spy on Kroenen and… the other person in black _must _be Ilsa, the book she's holding is the one Grigory gave her on October 9. _Erica thought for a moment, watching as Kroenen bent down and cleaned his bloodstained blade in the snow. _Maybe I'm only blocked from spying on Kroenen and Ilsa when I'm _tryin_g to do it. And this is a dream—nightmare— that's turned into a vision…so I'm not really here, then; I'm just a spectator like in all of my other visions._

Still uneasy, Erica watched attentively, memorizing everything so the BPRD could use the information to their advantage. _What are they doing?_ she wondered, _It can't be anything good. _

Ilsa left her position on the threshold and joined Kroenen on the stairs. She pulled off her cold weather mask and looked down at Razvan's body with a cruel, uncaring glint in her blue eyes. Her expression was as cold and hard as the ice and rock around her. Erica noticed with some shock that Ilsa, like herself, had not aged. _I shouldn't be all that surprised, _she thought, _Grigory told me he had made her immortal._

Ilsa watched with cold satisfaction as steaming blood leaked from Razvan's body and began flowing along two of the winding grooves cut into the stone floor. The metallic, sickly sweet smell of the man's blood tainted the crisp mountain air. _He has served his purpose, _she thought. She heard a slight hiss as Kroenen removed his cold weather mask, revealing his usual smooth metal mask beneath it. His raspy breathing was louder than it had been before and now she could just barely hear the ticking of his clockwork. They both walked along the last step, taking up positions on either side of Razvan's body; and as he went Kroenen stepped over the dead body as if it were nothing but a fallen log. Ilsa's eyes focused on the blood running along the carved channels, silently urging it to move faster.

Erica had a feeling something terrible was about to happen. She watched as the man's blood flowed along the grooves carved into the floor and slowly trickled into the basin. Dread sat in her chest like a lead weight and made it hard to breathe. The gathering power and tension in the room were building to the point where she could hear her heart pounding frantically in her chest and every muscle in her body was on edge. All of her attention was on the blood in the basin; she couldn't have torn her eyes away if she had wanted to. _What are they summoning? Some sort of demon? _she wondered. Gradually she became aware of an odd pressure in the room: it was a presence; a suffocating, dominating presence she hadn't felt in six decades. It was _worse_ than a demon. Erica felt all the blood drain from her face. _Oh. My. God._

Erica watched in horrified fascination as Grigory Rasputin began to rise from the blood filled basin, his head bowed and his naked body completely covered in blood.

Ilsa approached Grigory as he rose from the basin. Behind her Kroenen hung back. She knew he was afraid Grigory would punish him for his failures sixty years ago.

"Master," Ilsa whispered ecstatically, smiling at Rasputin in complete adoration. Her joy was squashed by horror as Grigory looked up at her, blood running over his skin and dripping off his face.

"Your eyes! What did they do to your eyes?" Ilsa gasped.

Erica cringed as well; Grigory's eye sockets were as empty as when his eyes had been wrenched out and sucked into the portal sixty years ago. Even worse, he had an expression on his face of madness, of vengeance, and of purpose—a terrible, disturbing expression that stole her breath.

A thought registered in Erica's brain. _This is a vision of the future,_ she thought. She watched as Ilsa helped her Master into a set of black robes, ignoring the blood that already stained the inky fabric. _Grigory is coming back. I have to warn Professor Broom! We might be able to stop them in time—!_

The back of her neck tingled; instinctively she shifted her eyes from Ilsa to Grigory. All thought instantly disappeared from her mind and was replaced by black terror as she met Grigory's intense, eyeless stare. She couldn't breathe—he was looking right at her! _No, _through_ you, _a little voice said in her head,_ He can't see you because you're not really here. And he doesn't have eyes. _As much as Erica wanted to believe it, she was paralyzed by Rasputin's empty gaze. _I'm not here_ _and he isn't either, _she thought, trying to be rational,_ It's just a vision; this hasn't happened yet—_

"_Acire_," Rasputin hissed. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, and there was an unpleasant twist to his thin lips as they parted cleanly—horribly—like skin beneath a scalpel. But what really stopped Erica's heart was that he didn't look surprised to see her—he had known she was there the entire time!

Overwhelming horror shot through Erica's body so fast she thought she was going to die; she gaped at him as adrenaline rushed dizzyingly through her veins. _Impossible! H-he shouldn't be able to see me! I'm not here! I can't be!_ She looked down at her previously transparent body and discovered she was completely solid! _Oh no…_she thought.

Kroenen looked at his Master, bewildered. _Why did he say Erica's true name?_ But Rasputin made no effort to answer Kroenen's unspoken question; he continued staring over the clockwork assassin's shoulder. _Like there's something behind me…_ Kroenen turned around—he stopped and stood perfectly still, consumed by shock and anger, barely believing what he was seeing. Erica was standing no more than a few feet away! He spotted the silver glimmer of the crucifix hanging around her neck; it was the same one he had returned to her six decades ago. The hate he felt for her—and for the religion that had influenced her actions—surged into boiling anger.

"Erica," Kroenen hissed; he sounded like a king cobra about to strike.

He felt an intoxicating thrill as the dilated pupils of her grey eyes shone with the fear of a trapped animal.

"No," she stuttered, "You can't—it's impossible—this is a vision—"

Kroenen paused in the act of reaching for his baton swords; he cocked his head slightly to one side as he turned her confusing words over in his mind. He didn't know how she had gotten there, and he didn't care, but it struck him as odd that _she _didn't know how she had gotten there either. "Ah, you think this is one of your visions?" he said at last, "You think you're not really here? But you are. In fact," he said as he savored a delicious idea, "I could kill you."

In one motion he dropped his backpack and shed his coat, ignoring the cold air. He grabbed the hilts of his baton swords and drew them. The action felt like it had been well rehearsed, something he had been waiting for, dreaming of, something he had been expecting. Pent up rage flooded his body with fiery hatred as his eyes locked on Erica. _TRAITOR! _Kroenen's mind screamed. Nothing existed for him in the world except for an overwhelming desire for revenge. He started towards her—

"Kroenen." Grigory's voice, hoarse from lack of use, cut through the red fog of bloodlust that clouded Kroenen's mind. The assassin heard the unspoken command in his Master's voice. _But why does he want me to stop?_ It didn't matter—Kroenen knew he couldn't refuse his Master.And though it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, though his heart was black with rage, Kroenen obeyed. Slowly, as if moving through frozen mud, the clockwork assassin forced himself to stop and turn towards his Master.

"There will be time for justice later," Grigory said, "I have a purpose for her."

Erica shuddered at the chilling tone in Rasputin's voice. _That can't mean anything good, _she thought. She glanced uneasily down at Kroenen; her heart was racing from how close she had come to dying. The assassin stood below her, poised to run up the stairs and rip her throat wide open. Erica could see him shaking with the effort to control himself; his hatred was practically radiating from him. _Thank God Grigory stopped him, _she thought. She shivered again as Grigory looked at her—she swore he could actually see her even without his eyes.

"And she's not as real as you think, Kroenen. She's fading," Rasputin said, gesturing at her.

Erica instinctively looked down at herself. She sucked in a breath of cold air in shock; her hands were becoming more see-through by the moment. She could see the stone floor through one of her bare feet again; it was a stomach turning sensation.

"She'll be gone soon," Grigory added softly.

Kroenen nearly snarled in frustration. _I've waited _sixty_ years! I want to kill her NOW!_ Erica was teasingly just out of his reach, almost as if she was _trying_ to torment him. It was maddening! _Then again, what's a little longer when I've waited six decades? After all, Rasputin might change his mind_. Kroenen slowly dropped his arms to his sides, but he kept his baton swords in his hands in the hope that Rasputin would decide he wanted Erica dead.

Erica shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Kroenen's discontent was clear in his body language; he stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at her. She could see two pale, perfect reflections of her terrified face in the dark lenses of his mask. And in the silence the mechanical ticking of his internal clockwork could be heard.

"How did she get here?" Ilsa asked, breaking the silence. Erica's head whipped around to face the Aryan woman at Rasputin's side. Ilsa's pale blue eyes were full of hate and she was holding her sledgehammer with the same purposeful air that Erica knew always preceded pain and suffering for her victims.

Ilsa understood Kroenen's frustration; she also desperately wanted to kill Erica. _It's _her_ fault Grigory has been gone for sixty years. It's _her_ fault!_ Ilsa thought. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her weapon as she contemplated shattering Erica's ribs and then cutting her throat. Ilsa knew she would laugh at Erica as she lay there with her lifeblood spilling out. Unfortunately she also knew the opportunity for revenge belonged to Kroenen and Kroenen alone. He, and no one else, would kill Erica. It was his duty.

"How did she get here?" Ilsa repeated.

"Forced astral projection." Grigory's accented voice was barely above a harsh whisper. Blood continued to drip from his body.

Erica finally managed to find her voice. "You? You did this?"

"No. You did."

Erica frowned at his cryptic words; Grigory only looked pleased with himself. His expression was as devoid of warmth as a glacier.

"Your blood oath binds you to us in ways you can't even imagine. Your chains are invisible but they are still there. When you swore an oath to serve us and sealed it in your blood you stepped into your chains of your own free will. And you are here because of that. Your blood bound you to appear, despite that you could not be here physically. It wouldn't be fitting for one of The Three to be absent at the moment of my return, would it? After all, we know how _loyal _you have been to the Ogdru Jahad, _Acire_."

Erica winced as if he had slapped her.

"This isn't a vision of the future. I _am_ back." He smiled; the insanity in his expression made Erica's stomach turn. "The Seven Gods of Chaos will never release you from your oath; you belong to us, mind, body, and soul. I am still your Master and we _will_ punish you for your treachery."

Erica glared at him. "You _aren't_ my Master anymore! You are _not_ my judges and neither are those _things_ you call gods!" she yelled defiantly. She was surprised by her own daring.

"Don't blaspheme!" Grigory thundered; his voice made the air vibrate. Fleshy shapes writhed lazily beneath the skin on his neck and arms. The shapes looked like _tentacles._

_That's new, _Erica thought, repelled and nauseated by the bizarre spectacle. Ilsa, however, was staring at her Master in fascination. Erica glanced at Kroenen; he was completely ignoring everything but her. The glass 'eyes' on his mask glinted eerily in the cold blue light as he stared up at her.

The movement beneath Grigory's skin faded away as he calmed down, but Erica knew his anger was simmering just below the surface.

"In the absence of the Ogdru Jahad we _are_ judge, jury, and executioner." Rasputin paused and stepped closer to her. His black robes dragged across the floor, leaving a bloody smear on the stone floor. "You may recall the dream you had after the battle on October 9th," Grigory said, "You refused the choice I so generously offered to you! Now you will have no choice; Kroenen will kill you."

Kroenen heard the words he had been waiting for; he stalked towards Erica with all the grace and menace of a cat. He started up the steps, eager to carry out his duty—

"Karl," the tone in Rasputin's voice was stern. Kroenen stopped in his tracks, frustration tearing and clawing his insides. It was all he could do to restrain himself from beheading Erica on the spot. _So close! _He wanted to scream.

"I want this done properly," Grigory said, a hungry expression on his face as he looked at Erica, "Death is too good for her. The Ogdru Jahad _will_ have their sacrifice."

"It would be my pleasure to do that now," Kroenen said, his voice dangerously polite. He stepped towards her again; Erica shrank away.

Rasputin stopped him with a harsh order, "Do not doubt me! I know what is best for our plans!"

Kroenen bowed his head, glaring but chastised. He knew from the anger in his Master's voice that his punishment wouldn't be long in coming to him—punishment for his past failures _and_ for the act of disobedience he had just committed.

"And as for you, _Acire_, I would advise you not to use your visions to pry into our affairs. Attempting to do so will have very unfortunate consequences. You know what to expect from us," Grigory said with a cruel grin.

"I'm not afraid of you," Erica said defiantly.

Grigory laughed; it was like the sound of an ancient, rusty mausoleum door being wrenched open. Blood ran down his neck and seeped into the neck of his black robes.

"Not afraid of me? You're lying, girl. You've _always_ been afraid of me."

"_Geh' zur Hölle!_" Erica yelled.

Rasputin's expression was unsettling. "Hell? You will see what the powers of _Hell_ can do. Tonight it will begin again," Grigory announced, "May Darkness prevail and may whatever _God_ you now believe in have mercy on your soul!"

His words froze Erica's blood in her veins more than the cold weather ever could.

Without taking his eyeless gaze from her face, Rasputin made a jerking motion at Kroenen with his blood covered hand. The gesture flung drops of blood everywhere; one splattered across the stone at Erica's feet.

"You may torment our guest—and that is _all_—until she leaves. We'll be seeing her again soon enough," Rasputin said.

Kroenen slowly started up the stairs; his mask glinted eerily in the light as he stared at her. He was as devoid of humanity as a black marble statue. Erica retreated from him as fear rushed through her body like a flood of ice water. She knew instinctively that he was grinning behind his mask.

"I _will_ come looking for you," Kroenen said, "I know where you are. So don't try to run. If you do, our blood bond will tell me where you are, and then I'll come for you. I was _alway_s going to come for you."

Kroenen advanced towards her with his baton swords gripped tightly in each hand. Erica backed away from him until her back ran into an ice wall. It was cold; she could feel the heat from her skin melting the ice and making the back of her shirt wet. That alone made it perfectly clear to her that he could hurt her if he wanted; she wasn't insubstantial enough to go through walls yet.

She eyed the room's only exit knowing there was no chance she could reach it in time. She was trapped; she could only stare in horror as Kroenen came towards her in a terrible imitation of the last time he had tried to kill her. _What is he going to do to me?_ she wondered. She flattened herself against the wall, willing herself to go through it as he came within three feet of her. She was painfully aware that she was unarmed and defenseless.

"Mercy," she whispered. She knew her plea fell on deaf ears; she had spoken on instinct and nothing more.

"I've given you proof in the past that mercy isn't one of my qualities." Kroenen's harsh voice dripped with venom and his mask seemed to glare at her, almost as if the smooth metal was capable of expressing the hatred in his voice. "I have a gift for you. Consider it a memento of the exile I've endured for the past _sixty years!_"

His baton swords flashed and moved in a blur as they rushed towards her. Erica threw her arms out and twisted her body so her heart was as far away from him as possible. The lethal silver blur descended on her—she could clearly read the script writing on the blades: _Alles für Deutschland_—the blades flashed—Erica shrieked as a steel blade bit into her right forearm, creating a long, thin gash. The cry was more of a reflex that anything; the wound didn't hurt nearly as much as she had expected.

But then again, for a moment, she had thought he was going to kill her.

Kroenen savored the shriek he had just heard—the sweet, _sweet_ sound of vengeance. _Sometimes justice can be most satisfying,_ he thought.

He watched as Erica clutched at the wound and pressed her left palm against it to stop the flow of blood. Her hands and arms, even her blood, was now transparent; it was like looking through colored glass. She was disappearing rapidly.

"I know this meeting will not remain a secret," Kroenen said, his voice made even harsher by his mask, "Take that back to your _friends_ as proof." He paused for a moment, considering. He wanted to finish his task and kill her. _But Grigory intervened. He must have a reason for sparing her worthless life—at least for the moment, _Kroenen thought,_ But that doesn't mean I can't make her life hell._

"And I have something else for you," Kroenen hissed. He sheathed one of his swords and reached towards her. Erica flinched and tried to get away—he roughly grabbed her shoulder and concentrated, forcing his way into her mind and leaving a beacon to guide his way back again. Whenever he chose to invade her mind again distance would no longer be a barrier.

"Expect to meet me in your dreams. I'll be waiting for you. And don't worry, I won't be late. I wouldn't miss turning your dreams into nightmares for _anything_." He laughed, cold and cruel; depraved and psychotic.

"Go away! Leave me alone!" Erica yelled. Even to her own ears her words sounded weak and childish.

Kroenen only laughed at her. "Oh, no. You'll never be alone as long as I can get inside your mind. It's too late; you've already let me in. I'll be the thing that keeps you awake at night, the thing that haunts your dreams."

He leaned down towards her. She was so transparent that he could barely see her.

"And Erica? Checkmate," he whispered.

Erica turned pale at the irony of his words. The next thing Erica knew she seemed to fall through the wall of ice and rock behind her. Kroenen rushed at her, darkness and steel and the scent of leather and old, dried blood.

She screamed herself awake.

Erica's eyes flew open. She was in her bedroom at the BPRD.

She lay frozen for a moment, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath, trying to comprehend the situation. Her sheets were tangled around her limbs and she was soaked with sweat. Her heart was pounding like a drum and all the muscles in her body were tense to the point of cramping. She laid in the dark, listening to her abnormally fast and shallow breathing. Her mind was a whirlwind of terror and confusion; it was like she had had a nightmare.

She felt something wet on her right forearm and looked down. It was blood, slowly oozing from a long, thin gash—exactly where Kroenen had cut her.

It _definitely_ hadn't been a nightmare.

The blood from the cut was warm and thick as it ran over her clammy skin. Shaking, she touched the wound. The darkness of her bedroom was suddenly smothering.

_I have to tell someone, _Erica thought.

Almost before she had completed that thought she was violently kicking free of the tangled, sweat soaked sheets wrapped around her body. She catapulted out of bed, stumbled to her feet, and then staggered towards the door, dizzy from standing up too fast. Force of habit made her grab a dagger on her way and she shoved in her belt. Then she fled her bedroom.

The corridors were dimly lit; only the emergency lights were on. Erica mentally cursed the BPRD's policy of saving money on electricity. She really wished Marie Baker wasn't so efficient at turning out all the 'extra' lights in the hallways; Erica didn't want to be alone in the dark, not now. Shadows crouched in the corners and the thought of what could be behind her only spurred her to run faster. Erica didn't dare to stop running; she was sure that if she did that all the demons from her worst nightmares would spring from the shadows.

Her bare feet thudded loudly against the slick linoleum floor as she ran; it was the only sound she could hear except for the thunder of her heart. _Abe,_ she thought, _I have to find Abe._

The trouble had begun, and she wasn't ready.

They were back!

Author's Notes: Another cliffhanger! Well, sorta. Poor Erica, life is about to get a whole lot more complicated and scary. I hope you all liked the multiple points of view I put in, as well as the scattering of humor! Please review!


	11. Gathering Darkness

**Chapter 11: Gathering Darkness**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Luke, Volker, and the plot that isn't from the movie belong to me.

Author's Notes: A huge thanks for the tons of reviews I received! It's the most I've received on one chapter _ever!_ I'm very happy right now; on January 5, 2007, I received my acceptance letter from college! And cd2185, who is writing a Hellboy fanfic called _All Part of Fate?_ drew two beautiful pieces of fanart of Erica and Kroenen in A Shadow to a Heart! Anyways, here we are at chapter 11: Get ready for a topsy-turvy ride of fear, insults, and romance. Honestly, what could be better? If you don't know them by now, here are the German to English translations: 'Ja' is yes, 'Nein' is no, 'Mein Gott' is My God, and 'Guten Tag' is good day. Enjoy the chapter!

**vihnanime:** Ha, sorry about the cliffhanger, I promise there isn't one in this chapter!

**musicamode:** Oh joy? Most people would be happy never to see Rasputin again. But from a plot-moving-forward view point, his reappearance does mean lots of entertaining trouble.

**Psycho Clowns:** Yes, there's definitely something romantic involved with Erica and Kroenen. But their problems are about to get much worse with the addition of a certain someone…hint hint!

**Schemergirl:** A new reviewer! A big hello and thanks for the huge review! Lord of the Flies? I could see that, with the talking pig's head sort of like the Shadow Man. And I'm pleased you think Erica has avoided Mary-Sue-dom, perhaps it is because she has character flaws? And as for Erica's last name, I believe you're the first one to catch onto the meaning!

**Psycho Llama:** I'm flattered that you love my writing so much! And yes, poor Abe, he doesn't realize he's going to have competition for Erica…

**iluvrocknroll:** No evil cliffies in this chapter!

**amyltrer:** No, the Shadow Man isn't one of the Ogdru Jahad; he's the embodiment of all evil, plus a personality. And yes, I suppose he would have a higher rank in Hell then they would. Just out of curiosity, why do you want to meet the Shadow Man? Oh, and you reminded me to address the problem of punishing Kroenen, and inspired by your review, I solved the problem and put it in this chapter! I think you'll like the solution.

**Elena-Unduli:** Another new reviewer! Hello! As for updating, I do it about once a month, give or take a few days.

**DarkCloudRider:** WOW! That has got to be the biggest review I have _ever_ seen! I'm flattered that you devoted so much time to reading my story, and that you enjoyed all the characters and scenes I added (the undertaker, the werewolves, the vampire, Jake and Anna, Kroenen and Ilsa 'sneaking around'). And as for the thing with Abe, I have a feeling it won't work out, no matter how much he and Erica might want it to. And as for Luke, I'm not sure if he had a stroke, I haven't gotten that far with his character. But you will be seeing him again, and you've given me a great idea for him! Thanks again!

"Revenge should have no bounds."—Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

"Yesterday is not ours to recover, but tomorrow is ours to win or lose."—Samuel Johnson

_The BPRD_

_Professor Broom's Study_

_Night_

Abe's obsidian eyes flicked open as something disturbed his sleep. He floated idly and sleepily in his tank, gazing blearily out at the darkened study just beyond the aquarium window. Nothing was amiss, the dark silhouettes of the furniture and untidy piles of books were all familiar and comforting. Abe relaxed and closed his eyes, allowing sleep to slowly overtake him again. He drifted off into the darkness, breathing slowly—

BANG!

Abe's eyes flew open in shock at the loud noise; he turned towards the aquarium window so sharply that he spun into an awkward flip. He expertly righted himself and peered anxiously into the study. _The door, _he thought, _one of the study doors must have hit the wall._ Abe's gaze focused on a moving figure running towards him, dodging the furniture and the piles of books that littered the red carpeting. It was Erica.

_I wonder why she's awake? _Abe thought. Then he saw her face; it was pale and tense. The fish man's stomach clenched with dread—something was horribly wrong.

"Abe!" she shouted, seeing him.

In her rush, Erica brushed by one of the tables; the books and papers on top of it tumbled to the floor in a flurry of newspaper clippings. Abe stared at her as she stopped a few inches from the glass. Her grey eyes were wild and Abe could feel her heart thundering. Abe's vision blurred as her fear-drenched thoughts slammed into his mind like an eighteen-wheeler hitting a concrete wall at 100 miles per hour.

Erica tried to speak, but only an odd choking sound escaped from her lips.

"What's wrong?" Abe asked anxiously.

In reply, Erica launched into a string of broken German mixed with English. Abe had no idea what she was trying to tell him; she was babbling incoherently and her thoughts were so scattered and disconnected that he was unable to make head or tails of them.

"Erica, slow down," he said gently, trying to calm her.

She stuttered and struggled for a moment as she tried to switch to English. "Gri—H-He's back!" she exclaimed. Her breathless voice shuddered as she spoke. "He's back!"

Abe didn't need to ask who she was talking about—as he looked into her eyes an image of an eyeless man dripping in blood appeared in his mind.

_Oh God, _Abe thought, horrified.

"He's back," she murmured; her German accent was stronger than usual. She hugged her arms around herself like a small child; Abe could see she was shaking. She leaned her face against the aquarium window and her tears smeared across the clean glass.

"Wait right there," he said, starting to swim away from the glass and up towards the surface. As he went he heard her whisper, "Don't leave me."

Abe quickly clambered out of the water and crossed over the intercom set into the wall, heedless of the water he was dripping all over the spotless tile floor.

"Professor?" he said, speaking into the box as he pressed the button set into it. He repeated himself three more times before he got an answer.

"Yes, Abe?" The old man's voice sounded sleepy.

"We have a problem. Erica's in the library," Abe said, unable to disguise his worry, "I think she's had a vision of Grigory's return."

"I'm on my way," Broom replied. There was urgency in his voice.

Abe hurried into the study. Erica was still kneeling on the floor beside his tank. Abe knelt in front of her and strengthened his mental shielding before he put his webbed hand on her shoulder.

"What happened?" he asked, searching her face, "Are you all right? Did you have a vision?"

"Yes. Nein. Forced astral projection. I was _there_—He saw me!" Tears ran down her cheeks. "Abe, he's going to kill me; he knows where I am."

"Shhh," Abe whispered, trying to comfort her. He pulled her closer and hugged her; he could feel her body shaking as she wrapped her arms around him. "Shhh. It's all over."

"No it's not," she said, speaking into his shoulder, "It's starting all over again."

She buried her face in his shoulder, oblivious that her clothes were getting wet from the water on his skin. Abe could feel her salty tears sliding down his skin along with the water that was slowly dripping onto the carpet. He felt something warm and thick running down his side and gently disentangled one of his arms so he could touch it. His webbed fingers came away wet and sticky—it was blood. _Erica's blood,_ he thought. He looked down at her and noticed her right arm was spattered with small crimson drops of blood.

"Why are you bleeding? Did you fall?" Abe asked.

"Nein. Kar—Kroenen stabbed me."

Abe was extremely unsettled._ What? How could that happen in a vision? _

There was only one way to find out: he cautiously dropped his mental barriers and opened his mind to whatever images or thoughts were in Erica's mind. What he saw hit him like the knife Kroenen had used to stab Erica's arm. The chaos of the disturbing images laced with fear assaulted Abe like a nightmare and he quickly jerked away.

"What's wrong?" Erica asked.

Abe realized her had let go of her. "I'm sorry," he said, hugging her again once he had restored the barriers, "I saw more than I was prepared for."

"Me too," she whispered, resting her head on his chest.

The door of the study swished open and Broom appeared; he was wearing slippers and a brown dressing gown that had been hastily pulled on over his pajamas. He clutched his cane and limped towards them, his aged face tense with worry.

"Are you both all right?"

"Yes. Some of us more than others, Professor," Abe answered.

"Erica, would you tell—no, I won't put you through that again," Professor Broom said, "Abe, would you show—er, _tell me_ what you saw?"

Abe quizzically blinked at the Professor but did as he requested. When he had finished, Professor Broom slowly straightened up, tightly gripping the handle of his cane.

"Sixty years," he said, "Only sixty years. And they're back."

Erica's sobs had slowed to sniffles; she pulled away from Abe a little and wiped her face with her hand. Her eyes were pink and swollen looking.

"Mein Gott, what am I going to do?" she murmured.

That was a good question. Abe knew how lost and scared she was; he wanted to help her. Suddenly he had an idea. "You're going to come with me to the Medical Bay so I can bandage that cut. Then we're going down to the kitchen to make hot chocolate."

Erica smiled at him through her tears. "That sounds wonderful."

Abe smiled back, feeling suddenly warm and happy despite the ominous news about Grigory Rasputin. He stood and helped her to her feet. As Erica started towards the door, Abe looked back at Professor Broom. The Professor smiled at him and nodded his approval before a more serious expression clouded his face.

"Take care of her, Abe."

"I will."

Abe wasn't sure if Professor Broom meant at the moment, or if he had guessed the fish man's real interest in Erica. Abe had a feeling it was the latter; sometimes the Professor was as perceptive as any psychic.

_What a strange time to fall head over fins in love, _Abe thought.

But he didn't care at all.

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Conference Room_

_Morning_

A plate of donuts and bagels sat in the middle of the table next to a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Erica cradled a cup of hot chocolate in her hands as she watched Tom Manning toss back what had to be his fourth cup of black coffee in the last hour. _I can't believe he can sit still with all that caffeine running though his system,_ she thought.

Manning set his coffee cup on the table. He was tired; due to last night's emergency, the meeting had been called in session earlier than it had been scheduled. Manning had been awakened at home by the phone ringing, and, after talking to the agent on the other end, had rushed out the door. He wasn't sure he was glad he had arrived on time: it was a somber group that sat around the table.

Hellboy sat on one side, glowering at his father and holding his coffee mug so tightly it was amazing it hadn't shattered. The red demon finally relinquished his death grip on his mug to grab a bagel, which he sawed at vigorously with a bread knife, tossing crumbs across the table in the process. Abe was fiddling with the projector; it was on the fritz, apparently because it had been doused in orange soda at the party in the cafeteria the night before. And on top of that, instead of discussing the wrap-up of the werewolf mission, they were talking about a twice-dead monk.

"Ah ha!" Abe announced triumphantly. Light flickered on the screen on the wall and finally coalesced and focused into a black and white photograph of a man. The caption read: _Grigory Yefimovich_ _Rasputin._

"So. This Rasputin is back," Manning said, "Why?"

"_Damn!_ Chocolate chip! I thought it was cinnamon raisin!" Hellboy said around a mouthful of bagel.

Manning glared.

"What?" Hellboy asked, shrugging.

"Ahem. To get back to the subject at hand…" Professor Broom said sternly. Hellboy studied his coffee intently. The Professor continued, "Rasputin is back to finish what he started. Fortunately his efforts to release the Ogdru Jahad were stopped the first time he tried." The Professor met Erica's eyes and they both shared a small smile.

"And do we know how he's going to do this?"

"Not really," Abe said, "I doubt he would attempt the construction of another portal generator; he knows Erica will have alerted us. He doesn't have the time. Nor does he have the influence or the power he once had; as far as we know he only has two supporters."

"Who?"

Abe changed the picture being projected to an old black and white photograph of a masked man and two women in Nazi SS uniforms; one of the women was Erica. Manning frowned at the photo; he _hated_ Nazis. He directed his baleful gaze down the table at Erica, who didn't notice.

"Karl Ruprecht Kroenen, the Fürher's Top Assassin and the Head of the Thule Occult Society," Erica said. She gestured at the masked man in the photograph. "And Ilsa Haupstien, a member of the Thule Society, and Grigory's lover. Both of them were with Rasputin last night."

"And what do they have to get out of helping this guy destroy the world?"

"Paradise, or so they believe," Broom said.

Manning sighed loudly and leaned back in his chair. _There's always some psychotic nut trying to wreck the world, _he thought. "Do we have any idea where they are or might go?"

"Ja," Erica said, her voice quieter than usual, "They're coming here."

"Why?" Manning demanded.

"Kroenen told me he knows where I am. He's going to try to kill me when he gets here."

Manning glanced at the photograph projected on the screen and decided he didn't like the look of the masked assassin. Kroenen was creepy, just like the rest of the freaks Manning had to deal with every day, and that included the ones _inside_ the BPRD.

"So we shoot them before they get close, big deal," Manning said, taking a drag on the stump of his cigar.

"Ilsa may die, but Kroenen is undead," the Professor explained, "And he's not the 'normal' undead."

Manning turned on Erica. "Any idea why an undead Nazi is after you?" he asked accusingly.

She shot him a look that said 'where have you been?' Manning gazed back; he wasn't one to let himself be intimidated. He couldn't be expected to remember the ins and outs of _everyone's_ file, after all. After a short pause, Erica started on an explanation.

"I betrayed him, injured him, and then managed to escape. I think that's probably more than enough reason in his mind," she said, sounding irritated.

"And what if this Kroenen—assassin—does come here because of you?" Manning asked. His expression was far from concern as he imagined informing more families that they'd lost a son or a father. "You'll be endangering everyone in the building! If someone is killed, it will be _your_ fault!"

"Tom. Calm down," Professor Broom said. It wasn't a suggestion.

Manning reluctantly settled back in his chair and took a few deep breaths. For her part, Erica looked composed, though her grey eyes were icy.

"Even if I left, Kroenen would still come here. I'm not the only one he and the others are after," Erica said; her voice was steady. Manning waited for her to elaborate, but instead she looked up at the photo on the wall, seemingly lost in thought.

Beside her, Abe grimaced as he caught a whisper of her thoughts. Despite her calm exterior, Erica _was_ afraid that her presence would bring Kroenen to the BPRD. The fish man shuddered as he caught some _very_ graphic images of the people Kroenen had murdered in the past.

"Maybe the danger _would_ be less if I was gone…" Erica murmured, speaking just loud enough that Abe and Hellboy could hear. Abe could see in her eyes that she didn't really believe it.

"Nah, we can deal with him," Hellboy said confidently, "You and me and Abe? Hah, we can take him, no problem!"

"I agree. We'll be in more danger if we split up. And no one can enter the BPRD against our wishes; the building has wards on it," Abe said; he directed his words more at Manning than at Erica.

Manning picked up the pristine papers in front of him and shuffled them intently, trying to ignore the fish man's gaze. Manning's eyes fell on two of the pages: reports of the vampire in Transylvania and the 'Werewolf Incident'.

"The reports mention that Volker and Luke both issued warnings to you. _Independently of each other._ Volker said something about the dead and the undead traveling fast, and the long dead being alive. The werewolf said the dark was stirring," Manning said. He shuffled the papers again out of habit and stared over them at the three special agents. "The BPRD doesn't like patterns."

"Luke isn't on their side," Erica said.

"We don't know that. Your report says they hired a vampire. Why not a werewolf?"

"Luke helped us," Hellboy said. His golden eyes narrowed.

Manning dismissed Hellboy's comment with a wave of his hand. "Since the vampire has been destroyed, I propose we find this Luke and bring him here for questioning."

"If I may interject," Abe said, "That will take a considerable amount of time. We don't know the location of Luke's home or the appearance of his human form. And with the latest threat of Grigory and the others, I think our resources would be better used preparing to deal with the remaining members of the Thule Occult Society."

"That's settled, then," Professor Broom said, jumping in before Manning could continue. He stood up, leaning on his cane. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have to leave for my doctor's appointment."

CRASH!

"_Damn it!_" Hellboy cursed as his coffee mug toppled over, spilling its scalding contents across the table and onto the projector, which fizzled ominously.

Everyone leapt to their feet to avoid being burned by the coffee. Professor Broom slowly closed his eyes and shook his head as Hellboy scrambled to clean up the mess with a wad of paper towels. Over on the wall the image of the photograph flickered and then disappeared as the projector gave up its life to the coffee's onslaught.

"Great. That will have to be replaced," Manning growled. He gathered up his few papers that weren't soaked in coffee and walked out, grumbling.

Professor Broom turned to Abe and Erica. "Expect Clay to arrive before I get back," he said, and then lowered his voice so only Erica and Abe could hear. "The new agent should arrive shortly after my return." The Professor winked and then headed towards the door—without saying goodbye to his son.

Abe watched Broom leave, concerned for his friend. _He's not telling us the entire truth,_ he thought, _Something is wrong. He just said he was going to a doctor's appointment, but last time he said it was important personal business. And he wouldn't let me touch him so I could show him what Erica saw last night…Oh well. He knows what he's doing; I won't pry into his business. He _must_ have a good reason…_

The few remaining members of the meeting broke up; two agents came in to escort the still-grounded Hellboy to his room.

"Aw! Come _on_ you guys! This isn't about the coffee, is it?" Hellboy protested as he was led away.

Erica stood in the middle of the concrete hall and stared after him.

_Hellboy chirped happily and crawled into Broom's lap where he sat smiling and contentedly twitching his tail like a pleased cat…the baby demon batted at the rosary dangling from his father's wrist…_

Erica smiled at the memory of her voyage to America, and at an event that had followed soon after:

_Professor Broom stood in front of her, hands on his hips, looking extremely irate._

_"Do you know what Hellboy said?" he asked._

_Erica shrugged and looked back down at the book she was reading. _

_"Pamcakes?" she guessed._

_"No," the Professor said, a hint of danger in his voice, "He was sitting next to me, playing with marbles and gurgling nonsense, and _what_ did I hear him say?"_

_"I wait with baited breath."_

_"I heard, out of my _sweet_ little baby, the German word_ '_arschloch'."_

_"Oh. Oh dear."_

_"I can't _imagine_ where he might have learned that, can you?" Broom asked, leaning in close._

_"I, um, didn't teach it to him," she said, searching for an explanation._

_"No, I thought not. Which means _he overheard you say it!_"_

Needless to say, Hellboy's foul language had stuck with him to the present day.

Erica watched as Hellboy, escorted by the two agents, turned the corner. Her gaze lingered on his right hand and the symbols engraved in it. She shuddered as she remembered what she had said to Professor Broom on that rainy October night in 1944:

"_Where did you find him?" she asked, gazing at the half-demon baby cradled in the Professor's arms._

"_In the ruins." Broom answered._

"_And it didn't occur to you that he came through the portal? That Rasputin sent him through?" _

"_Yes, it did." he admitted. He absentmindedly arranged the blanket that the 'baby' was wrapped in. _

"_Then why didn't you kill him?" _

"_In cold blood!" exclaimed the Professor, shocked, "That's murder! He's just a child!" _

"_He's a demon," Erica insisted, "And Grigory Rasputin sent him here with a purpose—to destroy the world!" _

_Broom gently put the baby down on his bed of blankets and then turned to face Erica._

"_Erica, listen. I know he's a demon. That's something that I can't change. But I can raise him to be one of us—I know I can! No one is in a better position than myself to raise a demon so he isn't evil."_

Erica desperately hoped Professor Broom was right. She knew she wasn't the only one Grigory was after.

She just hoped Hellboy knew, too.

XXXXX

_Airspace over the North Atlantic Ocean_

_Morning_

The airplane roared over the sparkling ocean that lay far below. But in the warm interior of the plane the sound was reduced to a muted growl. Grigory—no longer covered in blood, but still eyeless—was sitting in the front of the plane's cabin, eating and drinking with a grace amazing for someone resurrected only a few hours before.

Ilsa watched him from her chair in the middle of the cabin. She wondered what thoughts were running through her lover's mind. Grigory had shared part of his plans with them as they had descended the mountain, aided by magic since Grigory had been too physically weak at the time to climb down the rocky trail. After that they had gone to an executive airport in Moldavia and bartered passage on a private flight—unrecorded, of course.

And now they were headed towards the United States of America. And revenge.

She smiled and her long, red fingernails tightened like talons on the armrest of her chair.

Behind her, in the back of the cabin, Kroenen was brooding silently. The black folds of his leather trench coat had settled around him like wings; he resembled a depressed vulture.

_The only time Grigory has spoken to Kroenen was to give him orders,_ Ilsa thought. _Kroenen shouldn't have disobeyed him by trying to kill Erica. But I can't really blame him; the temptation must have been terrible._

Rasputin was punishing the clockwork assassin where he was the most vulnerable, and in a way that Kroenen couldn't enjoy the resulting pain: Kroenen's punishment was psychological pain.

Rasputin was ignoring him.

_I wonder how long it will be until Kroenen doesn't care anymore, _Ilsa thought. _He already has pain and guilt about not killing Erica sixty years ago. And then there's his murderous obsession with her. Maybe he's insane enough that he'll just stop caring about being ignored._

But that wouldn't be for a while. Kroenen was a proud man. He was still the Head of the Thule Occult Society, he was still the best assassin on the face of the Earth, and he was still the best manipulator of clockwork. He would _not _take well to being treated as a servant, only spoken to when he was given orders.

In the back of the airplane, Kroenen sat, staring unseeingly at the tan wall opposite him. He didn't know how he felt; he was simply existing. He was happy that his Master had returned, but that happiness had been seriously marred by Erica's appearance a few hours before, and his resulting punishment. The clockwork assassin knew he deserved it, but that didn't make it any easier to bear.

And he was frustrated: Grigory had ordered him not to kill Erica until Anung-un-Rama was in Russia. Kroenen wondered if this was just further punishment.

The assassin clenched his teeth together, just barely preventing the escape of an angry hiss. _I don't _want_ to wait—that traitor has lived sixty years longer than she was meant to!_

However, Grigory _was_ allowing him to torment her—providing the resulting wounds weren't serious enough to keep her inside the BPRD. They needed to get her out in the open and keep her busy; their entire plan relied on the BPRD being too active and tired to notice what was really going on.

_Of course, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop myself when I find Erica, _Kroenen thought. He was surprised Grigory had trusted him to have self control; the incident in the mountains had proved Kroenen barely had any where his Angel was concerned.

On the other hand, Kroenen wanted to avoid blindly murdering Erica in a fit of temper. He wanted to _savor_ his revenge. He wanted her to die properly; a sacrifice to the Ogdru Jahad. _Perhaps Grigory is relying on that to keep me restrained. But why does he need her alive until then? Surely if she was dead there would be less of a risk she would interfere with our plans._

Kroenen didn't know, and he didn't like it. _But it's all for the best,_ he thought. He wouldn't disobey his Master and risk further punishment. Then he grinned wickedly. _Besides, I haven't quite finished my plans for when I meet Erica. But gods and mortals had best beware when it is finally time for me to claim my right. _

He peered out the window, watching the ocean race away as the airplane sped towards the United States—a place Kroenen had only dreamed of visiting in order to kill his wayward Angel. _The game has begun,_ he thought. With Grigory to lead them, Kroenen knew they would be the victors.

They had made their move. The clock was ticking.

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Professor Broom's Study_

_Late Morning_

"This beacon Kroenen put in me—is there a way to get rid of it?" Erica asked.

"I certainly hope so," Abe said as he scanned book titles. He was perched precariously on the rung of a ladder, and he was much higher up than was comfortable for him. "The connection is dangerous; whatever he's plotting to do to you in your dreams isn't going to be good. Here—catch!"

Below him, Erica caught the book; she added it to the pile on the table as he descended the ladder. Needless to say, Abe was quite happy to have his two webbed feet back on terra firma. _It's not my most favorite element,_ he thought, _but at least I'm not afraid that I'll fall._

He picked up the nearest book and began flipping through it; Erica did the same.

"It's odd that I could find the beacon but couldn't get rid of it," Abe said, "Kroenen must have used some other method than just perverting psychic abilities."

"Ja," she said, and then trailed off in thought. Abe glanced sideways at her, knowing she was debating with herself.

"Abe," she said, breaking the silence, "I have an idea. Do you remember the books Professor Broom and I recovered from the ruins of the mansion?"

"Where Kroenen and the others lived?"

"Ja, those."

"What about them?"

"Kroenen had to learn how to create that beacon. If he learned it from a book, maybe that book survived the fire."

"Perhaps," Abe said, cocking his head as he considered the matter. "But be careful; those books were _made_ by evil to be _studied_ by evil. The books know you're no longer their rightful master."

Erica nodded and started up the iron spiral staircase, stepping over a pile of books heaped on the lower steps as she went. Abe watched her go; he only returned to his book when she had disappeared and the only sound was her jackboots striking the final metal steps at the top of the staircase. For a few minutes he was alone, scanning yellowed pages and then carefully turning them with his webbed fingers. The comforting bubbling of his water-filled collar filled his ears and provided a nice backdrop of white noise to prevent the silence from becoming oppressive.

Erica's return from one of the storerooms was heralded by the clatter of her descending the staircase. Abe glanced up just long enough to see she was carefully carrying a large box in her arms; it was made of an unidentifiable dark metal, and every inch of it was inscribed with protective wards and symbols of power.

Erica set the heavy box on the table with a loud thump, wiggling her fingers out from under it just in time to avoid smashing them. She pushed the box back from the edge of the table and fished around in the pockets of her trench coat for the keys.

_I really do hate using these books, _she thought, sighing. She shuddered as her fingers suddenly wrapped around the three cold iron keys in her front pocket. _Reading them makes me feel unclean, like I'm so dirty that no amount of hot water and soap could ever wash it away. But they _might_ help me…_

Erica vividly remembered the trip to Germany she had made with Professor Broom. It had been several decades ago. Professor Broom, with her assistance, had recovered some books from the charred ruins of the mansion she, Kroenen, and Ilsa had once called home. Most of the extensive collection of occult books and scrolls had burned to ash or disappeared by their own means, but a few of the books—the ones now in the possession of the BPRD—were powerful enough that they had barely been damaged by the blaze that had greedily devoured the decadent mansion.

Erica unlocked the box. She took a deep breath, and opened the lid. It swung easily on its hinges, and the air that rushed out smelled of yellowed parchment and old, charred wood. If you ignored the chains wrapped around each book, they looked innocent enough. But Erica knew better.

She scanned the titles, mentally translating the foreign and forgotten languages into English until she spied a likely candidate. She cautiously removed the book from the heavy metal box and then quickly shut the lid.

She unwound the chain from the book and—holding her breath—opened the book to the first page. It was blank. Erica thought for a moment and then dragged her fingertips down the page. Instantly, handwritten letters appeared on the page, written in something that horribly resembled blood. Her stomach did a violent flip-flop as she read the words:

_Guten tag, Erica Schwarz_.

She shuddered, hoping that the book wasn't remembering her from all the hours she had spent in Kroenen's library. _Unfortunately, it probably is,_ she thought. Sixty-some years ago it hadn't bothered her that the books would write messages to her, suggesting demon accomplices or such and such poison, but now she found it extremely disconcerting. It was like they could read her mind. _And a few of them probably can, _she thought. _But at least I can usually force them to cooperate, even though a few of them have discovered that I betrayed their former masters._

As if on cue, a string of demeaning, profanity-filled sentences scrawled themselves across the page. Erica frowned. The book's foul language would have outdone a professional rapper.

Another sentence appeared below that, containing a condescending message about what Kroenen and Ilsa, the book's _true_ Masters, would do to her when they caught her. Erica rolled her eyes at the self-righteous and gory monologue and turned the page.

The next page, if possible, was even worse, this time complete with graphic, hastily drawn stick figure illustrations accompanying the book's smug captions. The silver crucifix ring on Erica's hand clicked against the table as she drummed her fingers in growing irritation.

The book, however, continued right along:

_Judas kissed his master and cried, 'All hail!' when as he meant all harm. Et tu, Erica?_

Erica had had enough. She slammed the book shut, wrapped it in its chain, and thrust it inside the metal box.

"Any success?" Abe asked. There was slight smile on his thin lips.

Erica shook her head as she locked the lid of the box. "Nothing useful, but I _was_ reminded of about fifty different ways to cuss at someone in a variety of dead languages."

Abe chuckled. "Those books really don't like you."

"That's an understatement," she muttered. The book's '_Et tu, Erica?_' was replaying itself over and over in her head. "How about you? Find anything?"

Abe shrugged, his webbed hands making a graceful but helpless gesture. "Not yet. However, from what you've told me of Kroenen's abilities, I would hypothesize that he has to remove the beacon himself."

Erica's stomach fell like lead as her hope of evading Kroenen's plot was squashed. "That's never going to happen," she said gloomily. She sank down on a sofa and held her head in her hands.

Abe watched her with concern; she looked so despondent compared to the Erica he was used to. But considering the circumstances, he really couldn't blame her.

"You mentioned you were able to force Kroenen out of your mind in the past," Abe said, sitting down beside her and resisting the urge to hug and comfort her, "when you were planning to betray the Thule Occult Society. Perhaps you could do the same in your dreams?"

Erica looked up at him. "Maybe," she said. There was a note of hope in her voice. "I could try, at least. I'd prefer it if I didn't have to, though."

"Agreed," Abe said, and then changed the subject. "Kroenen said he knows where you are. Do you have any ideas about what to do?"

Erica's face grayed at his words. "Heighten security and make sure the wards on the BPRD stay up. And pray."

"That's not what I meant," Abe said. Erica looked puzzled. Abe met her eyes and held her gaze. "What are _you_ going to do if Kroenen appears? How are _you_ going keep _yourself_ safe?"

Erica looked at him oddly. Abe wondered if she had caught the hint of more than friendly concern that had slipped out in his voice; he half hoped that she had.

Erica stared at Abe, trying to read his face. As usual, it was next to impossible. _Still, the tone in his voice..._ And Abe had been so kind and compassionate to her last night—but no. That was expected of a friend. He couldn't be interested in her. _He would have said something by now if he was._

"I'll have to fight him," she said at last, returning her focus to his question. "There won't be a way to get around that; Kroenen wants a fight. I don't stand much of a chance, though." She absentmindedly fingered the T-scar on her face.

"What are his advantages?"

"Climbing vertical surfaces, speed, strength, and stealth. Oh, and not dying, which means fighting him is practically suicide. And on top of teaching me how to fight, he knows me so well it'll be child's play to him to figure out what I'm going to do."

They were silent for a moment, deep in thought as they contemplated the clockwork assassin.

"No…wait," Erica said softly. Abe saw her eyes shining and knew she had a glimmer of an idea. "That's his weakness," she said with growing excitement; she jumped to her feet. "He's overconfident. Kroenen _thinks_ he knows what I'm going to do."

"You can surprise him," Abe said, sharing the sudden exhilaration of her idea, "Do something unexpected. Instead of hand to hand combat—throw explosives at him."

"Ja! It might be enough to hold him off for a while," she said. "_If_ I can find him before he finds me. I wish I could use my visions…"

Grigory's warning about the use of Erica's visions was fresh in Abe's mind; he knew there was no point in incurring the mad monk's wrath and putting Erica in further danger by forcing the issue. _What other way could she use to find Kroenen?_ Abe wondered. Nothing. He had no idea. _What if I approached the question from the other side? Kroenen _has_ to be able to find Erica, so how would he do that?_ Abe blinked; the answer was right in front of him.

"Erica," he said slowly, "you don't need your visions. Kroenen accidentally told you how to find him. He said he would use your blood bond _to find you—_"

"—and I can do the same thing!"

Erica hugged him; Abe happily returned the unexpected embrace, mirroring her smile.

The hug lasted a few moments longer than befitted a pair of best friends, and Erica started to pull away, looking a little embarrassed. Abe, for a reason unknown to the rational part of his brain, immediately noticed. And ran with it.

Abe gently tightened the embrace to prevent her from pulling away; Erica looked at him quizzically. Abe's mind rushed for an explanation, but couldn't find one—except the truth. _But what if she says no?_ he thought. His stomach clenched and he felt a huge, black pit of despair opening up somewhere in his mind, just waiting for the response that would send him tumbling over the edge. _I'll—I'll ask her something—A test—So I won't be embarrassed if I'm_ _wrong_.

"Erica—last night—why did you come here?"

"The Professor's study?"

"No, no. To me. Why didn't you go to Professor Broom?"

The question hovered in the air between them. Abe's heart raced as he waited for her answer.

"I don't know," Erica said, shrugging. She suddenly felt awkward and uncomfortable and didn't know why. No, that wasn't true. She _did_ know why she felt awkward: Abe could hear every thought rushing through her mind, including everything she had recently thought about _him_. It was an embarrassing proposition, and she struggled against the heat rising in her cheeks. "It just felt right, somehow. I knew you could help. You're my best friend."

"Oh."

_Sometimes we have to take risks in order to seek happiness, _Abe thought. He took a deep breath and threw caution to the wind.

"Would you like to be more than friends?" he asked quietly.

Erica was so shocked she wasn't sure she had heard him correctly. _Did _Abe_ just say what I thought he said?_ She saw a small splash of dark blue on Abe's cheeks. Abe was _blushing!_

_He's serious,_ Erica thought, _he means it!_ A smile slowly spread across her face. Her brain had absolutely no idea what she was supposed to do. Fortunately her heart figured it out for her.

"Yes," she said, and hugged him.

And feeling Erica's warm, lithe body pressed up against his, Abe's anxiety faded into nothingness.

He was happy.

Author's Notes: Awww! So cute! I hope everyone enjoyed the humor—I felt I needed to break up the seriousness of the past chapter or so. Which also explains my first attempt at writing fluff, which I think turned out okay, but I suppose I'll find out. Also, the quote about Judas is from Shakespeare, if anyone was wondering. Please review!


	12. So Much to Do, So Little Time

**Chapter 12: So Much to Do, So Little Time**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me, and neither does the song 'Bad Moon Rising'. However, Erica Schwarz, Luke, Volker, and the plot that isn't from the movie belong to me.

Author's Notes: Thanks again for the ton of reviews! At ten reviews, that's the most received for any chapter so far! I am also very pleased to say that at a total of 76 reviews, Though Heaven Bar the Way has the same number of reviews as A Shadow to a Heart. Thank you one and all for your dedication and support! I would also like to thank Psycho Llama for her fantastic fanart of the scene with the cursing book! As for this chapter, all I can say is there's a lot going on, _fast_. As always here are the German to English translations: 'Ja' is yes, 'Nein' is no, 'Alles für Deutschland' means Everything for Germany. Enjoy the chapter!

**whitefang4ever:** Yay! New reviewer! Yeah, Erica and Abe got together. I'm not entirely sure how it's going to work out though, because now there's kind of a love triangle.

**Psycho Clowns:** Yes, poor Abe. What ever will be Kroenen's reaction when he finds out?

**Elena-Unduli:** Wow! That has to be the _biggest _review I've ever received! Thank you for all of your feedback. By the way, I'm thinking I might use your idea about Erica's dream. And your English is perfect!

**amyltrer: **You liked her evil roughness? I think some of it will show up next chapter—I'm thinking she's going to sort of lose her sensibility when she runs into Kroenen.

**musicamode:** Good to know that you liked AxE, it give me more confidence for writing fluff in the future.

**Psycho Llama:** I love the Abe/Kroenen comics too! I also can't take Rasputin as seriously after reading them, all his impossible plans involving mushrooms and plumbing and giant spiders…! At least he's distracted enough not to notice AxK. And again, thank you for your fanart!

**DarkCloudRider:** I love your tiny script thing, it made me laugh! Especially _'hey you want to be my girlfriend even though you my die very soon and the world may be coming to an end and we should all be really depressed?'_ There's nothing like bonding while working together to find a way to save one of you from a murderous, undead assassin!

**Cosmic Imaginer:** Another new reviewer! Glad you're enjoying the story.

**Schemergirl:** 'The Silent Treatment' is the only thing I could think of that would even remotely bother Kroenen; in this chapter you'll see what happens as a result.

**iluvrocknoll:** It's not really juvenile for Rasputin to ignore Kroenen; what else is the guy going to do to punish someone who _enjoys_ physical pain? And remember, Rasputin is also treating Kroenen like a servant and preventing him from killing Erica until Hellboy is in Russia.

"When you go home tonight and the lights have been turned out and you are afraid to look behind the curtains and you dread to see a face appear at the window—why, just pull yourself together and remember that after all _there are_ such things."— Bram Stoker, _Dracula_

"What's coming will come and we'll just have to meet it when it does."—J. K. Rowling

"It isn't where you came from, it's where you're going that counts."—Ella Fitzgerald

_The BPRD_

_Professor Broom's Study_

_Halloween_

_Noon_

Abe looked down at Erica as they embraced, happy and content. _She smells like leather and soap,_ he thought. She gazed up at him, smiling, and Abe wondered in a vague, content way what it would be like to kiss her—

"Professor Broom? I—oh."

Abe turned at the sudden interruption. Agent Clay stood in the doorway, astonishment plastered across his features. The corners of the Agent's mouth slowly turned up in a smile.

"Wow. I really missed a lot," Clay said, eyeing them up and down.

"Actually, you didn't," Erica said. Then she reconsidered, "Not with us, anyway."

"Yes. This just…sort of…" Abe trailed off.

"Happened?" Clay suggested, his grin broadening. They both nodded.

"Well then, I'll leave you two alone. I know I won't be able to get anything useful out of either of you for a while."

The doors swished shut behind him.

The mood broken, they stood still for a moment longer, and then Erica pulled away. She self consciously tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear.

"So…I guess we better get started on finding those things for me to fight Kroenen with," she said softly. She felt awkward and lame, like she should have said something else.

Abe nodded and then smiled down at her. "Besides, if we don't, I'm sure everyone will be crowding in here to tease us."

She laughed and started up the spiral staircase with Abe right behind her.

The storeroom wasn't locked when they got there; Erica had left it open with the intention of taking the box of books back when she was finished with them. Her hand groped along the wall and made contact with the light switch. Instantly the lights snapped on and flooded the white room with bright, harsh light.

"So…what exactly are we looking for?" Abe asked.

"My original baton swords," she answered, speaking over her shoulder. She scanned the tags hanging off various containers as she moved along one of the rows of dull grey metal shelves.

"Original?" he asked; he fell in step behind her.

"Ja. I had copies made—minus the engraved phrase _Alles für Deutschland_, for obvious reasons—to use in the field, on missions; that way I could avoid losing the ones Kroenen made."

Abe nodded. "I knew that. But why do you want them instead of the copies?"

"I'm better off fighting Kroenen with the weapons he made for me. They're less likely to break; even I don't know what kind of metal they're made from."

She ran her finger along the metal shelf as she walked; every now and again she snatched at a tag to check the printed label. "And I'd like my wrist-blades too…Ah _ha!_" she cried triumphantly. She had spotted the label she was looking for: _Erica Schwarz. 1944_.

Erica grasped one end of the large, heavy rectangular container and started to slide it forward. Beside her Abe reached up to help her, and Erica felt a sudden stab of fear mixed with guilt. _What will he see if he…?_

"You might not want to touch this, Abe," she warned.

Abe looked at her quizzically, his outstretched webbed fingers barely an inch from the box. He saw the distress and concern on her face and realized what she meant. _She's worried about the memories and events attached to the things inside, _he thought, _What I might think of her if I see them._

"It's alright," he said reassuringly, "It's the past; I won't condemn you for it. That _isn't you_ anymore."

Erica bit her lip but nodded, and Abe grabbed the other end of the box. The moment his webbed hands made contact with the black plastic he felt like he was holding onto a Pandora's Box filled with whispering demons. _The memories inside are still clear, despite their age,_ Abe thought. And from the darkness in their whispers, they were nightmarish. Fortunately the thick plastic blocked them from assaulting his brain, but Abe reinforced his mental defenses, just in case.

They put the box on the floor and knelt down beside it. Erica ran her hands over the rough, heavy duty black plastic as she flipped up the metal catches that held the box closed. She opened it.

The box smelled strongly of leather and old paper, and Abe saw why when he looked inside. Erica's peaked SS hat was on the top, perched on her neatly folded SS uniform and trench coat. Erica looked uncomfortable as her hands brushed over the soft leather; she quickly but gently laid them aside. She pushed aside a folder that contained yellowed newspaper clippings and old photographs, revealing some smaller odds and ends that she picked up quickly, averting her eyes from them. She laid them on the tile floor and returned to rummaging through the box.

Abe studied the objects on the floor: an Iron Cross on a black ribbon, and a necklace consisting of a small silver watch on a chain. He took a glove out of his pocket and slipped it on before he picked up the necklace and turned it over; on the back there was an engraved crescent, Kroenen's initials, and the date of the day he had given it to Erica: her twenty second birthday. The watch was a little tarnished but still ticking, and—eerily—the tiny silver hands pointed to the correct time.

"You _really_ don't want to touch these," Erica said, her guilt and shame strong in her voice. "Even I'm not entirely sure how many people I murdered with these."

The fish man's eyes flicked over the baton swords and wrist blades she held in her hands. The blades radiated hints and glimpses of events; none were pleasant. The only one he identified and felt was completely justified was her fight with Kroenen:

_Erica cannoned into Kroenen; he lost his balance and crashed into a wall. She stabbed the assassin's left arm and the blade went all the way through, pinning his wrist to the wall—He twisted her arm and threw her to the ground. Erica's face crashed into the cold cobblestones—_

Abe strengthened his defenses and blocked out the memory. Beside him Erica had repacked the box and closed the latches that held it shut.

"Help me with this," she said, grabbing one end.

Abe obligingly stood up and then reached down for the other end of the box, taking a step forward as he did so. He felt his bare foot come down on a small, hard object lying on the floor—

_The portal generator stood in the center of an enormous, dimly lit concrete and steel workroom. Arcs of electric blue blazed in the dark where technicians wearing oil- stained white lab coats welded metal parts onto the machine._

_Erica stood beside the hulking contraption; she was angry, and her hands were on her hips in a way that screamed danger. A Nazi technician was trying to explain something to her in German; he gestured wildly at the portal generator—and his hand collided with a seven-foot high pile of haphazardly balanced parts._

_CRASH!_

_Erica shrieked as the weight of the falling pile knocked her to the floor. The technician froze, dismayed and terrified; he had the look of a condemned man in his eyes. Erica, half buried in the metal parts, glared at the Nazi technician; her gray eyes were murderous._

"_I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—" the technician babbled, pleading and backing away from her. "Please don't—it was an accident—"_

"_Start running! And you better pray I'm slow!" Erica snarled as she clumsily disentangled herself from the parts. She drew one of her baton swords._

"_Mercy!" the man begged. He backed away from her, holding up his hands as if he was praying._

_Erica was deaf to his begging. The technician cried out in horror and despair as she stalked towards him; desperate to save his life, he threw a hammer at her and ran. Erica dodged the hammer and sprinted after the fleeing man, who was tripping in his haste._

_Erica overtook him in less than ten paces. She grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and stabbed him in the stomach. She held him for a moment as the man shrieked and gurgled in pain; when she released him he collapsed and lay unmoving at her feet. Erica kicked him aside disdainfully. Scarlet blood dripped off her sword as she stared at the other scientists in the room, who hurriedly returned to work, pretending they hadn't been watching. Kroenen approached her, his footsteps loud and echoing—_

A hand seized Abe's ankle and pulled, breaking his contact with the object beneath his foot. Abe blinked and his two sets of transparent eyelids slid down and up again, clearing away the last of the disturbing images. Erica quickly scooped up the Iron Cross lying on the floor near his foot and put it in her trench coat pocket with the silver watch necklace. When she straightened up again she was clearly worried; there was shame in her grey eyes.

"What did you see?" she asked softly, afraid of the answer. She gazed at the floor, unable to look him in the face.

Abe paused; the memory flickered pale and ghostly in his mind, but he dismissed it. "Nothing I will ever hold against you," Abe said, pulling her into a hug. Her uncertainty vanished at the physical contact. "That's not _you_ anymore. Let the past stay in the past."

"I'd like to," she said, "I really would. And I could if people from it weren't trying to kill me."

XXXXX

_A Black Mercedes_

_The Return Drive from the Lexington Oncology Center, New York_

_Afternoon_

The hum of the black Mercedes engine would have been comforting under any other circumstances; Broom had often dozed off during the drive back to the BPRD. But not this time.

His fears had been confirmed: he was dying.

The Professor had taken the doctors' news calmly; he had been expecting it. And now that he knew… he sighed. There was no point in dwelling on his death; he had known it was coming. Now he just wanted to make use of every minute he had left.

_I won't tell anyone, _he thought, _I don't want them worried about me. They need to focus on fighting Rasputin, not on an ill old man. The other six billion lives in the world are too precious._

The autumnal landscape rolled by, the usually brilliant colors dulled by the overcast sky. A few dry leaves caught in the car's draft whirled past the windows. Through the windshield Broom spotted the white buildings of the above ground portion of the BPRD; he was almost home. The Professor ran his fingers over the beads of his rosary, silently praying everyone was still safe.

_Rasputin doesn't have a habit of staying dead; I knew he would come back eventually, _Broom thought,_ I just didn't expect it would be so soon, or now, when I'm dying. And now Rasputin is ahead of us. We're in the dark. We will only know what he chooses to reveal, and he will only reveal enough to ensure we fall into his trap._

_And Hellboy…what does Rasputin want with my son?_ The question, fueled by his fatherly protective instincts, was pointless: Broom had always known, as a father _and_ a paranormal expert. He hadn't needed Erica to tell him the truth when he had found Hellboy in the ruins of Trondham Abbey.

Rasputin was back to claim Hellboy as his own. To make Hellboy the Prince of Hell on Earth.

Professor Broom stared blindly out the window, imagining his son standing tall and defiant before Rasputin. The image filled him with pride.

It was true he couldn't be sure that Hellboy would refuse to cooperate. A demon was a demon; nothing would ever change that. But Professor Broom had faith in his son; he had brought Hellboy up as best he could. In the end only Hellboy could decide what he would do.

And Broom was certain his son would make the right choice.

XXXXX

_Gate Entrance to the BPRD_

_Late Afternoon_

Myers's moped growled down the street, the tires kicking up dry brown leaves and pieces of garbage lying on the pavement. He shivered as the chill autumn wind buffeted him; overhead the grey cloudy sky seemed to promise rain.

_What am I getting myself into?_ Myers wondered. He knew next to nothing about his new job, and yet, here he was. Driving into the unknown, with nothing but two suitcases and a duffle bag strapped to the back of his moped. He spotted a gate up ahead, and an unusually shaped white building.

_Am I in the right place?_ He stopped his moped at the gate and gazed past the metal bars at the building; there were two huge statues to the left and right, and a fire-filled metal basin on a high pedestal in front of the building. Myers turned away from the unusual sight and inspected the tarnished brass sign on one of the white stone gate posts. The sign proclaimed "Squeaky Clean WASTE MANAGEMENT Services".

Myers dug a crinkled paper out of his pocket and checked the address, then the directions. He had followed them correctly. _Somebody must have really screwed up on this, _he thought, pushing the paper back into his pocket. He was about to turn around and leave when it occurred to him that the top secret government facility might be hiding under a false name. The rest of the information he had gotten had been very sparse, so it made sense.

_Besides, a place that proclaims 'Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense' for the entire world to see would probably be too mobbed to get anything done,_ he thought. He glanced at the call buttons below the sign. _It won't hurt to ask. And if I'm wrong, maybe they can give me directions. _

He reached for one of the buttons.

_Here goes nothing._

XXXXX

_Abandoned Subway Area_

_Furnace Room_

_Late Afternoon_

The hellish glow of a raging inferno was thrown against the rusty metal walls of the furnace room; the light from the flames in the furnace escaped through two square windows set into the boiler's thick doors. Shadows danced through the room accompanied by the flickering, red light.

Kroenen liked it that way. He was quite at home among the steam and the smoke that seeped out through cracks in the ancient furnace. It reminded him of his goal: the release of the Ogdru Jahad, who would burn the Earth and create a paradise from the ashes of the old world.

He sat at a worm-eaten wooden desk he had found in the nearby basement of a closed orphanage; Grigory had chosen to stay in the underground, abandoned parts of the city to avoid detection by the BPRD. An old overhead light dangled from the ceiling by a fraying cord; it cast a harsh, dim glow on Kroenen's current work: he was sharpening his blades in preparation for nightfall. They didn't really need it—he never allowed his equipment to fall into anything resembling disrepair—but he needed something to keep him occupied.

Ilsa leaned casually against one of the walls, smoking a cigarette and watching Kroenen. He was not a pretty sight. He had his shirt off and the cadaverous, scarred flesh of his torso was crisscrossed with fresh cuts and black stitches—all evidence of his surgical addiction. Rasputin's disregard for Kroenen had finally gotten to the clockwork assassin; Kroenen had turned to his only source of pleasure in an effort to alleviate his mental pain.

Ilsa waited for him to acknowledge her presence, though she knew from long experience that he would not. Then again, he might not know she was there; the harsh grating sound of his dagger on the whetstone was more than loud enough to have covered the sound of her footsteps when she had arrived.

"Looking forward to meeting your Angel, I see," Ilsa finally said, exhaling a stream of cigarette smoke.

Kroenen continued working, but answered her. "Ja. Finally, after all these years, someone actually _worth_ killing."

"But not before you have some fun first, over the next few days," Ilsa said, smiling wickedly. "I wish I could be there with you tonight. I would relish the sight of her blood."

"So will I. And there will be so _many_ opportunities for me to spill more of it between now and when we finish with her in Russia." He held the blade up to the light so he could admire the razor sharp edge. "I'll make her _beg_ me to kill her before I'm through with her," he murmured.

"_Ilsa…_" Grigory called; his voice snaked sinuously through the underground maze.

Ilsa half-turned, intent on leaving to answer her Master's summons. "It would appear he doesn't want me talking to you, too."

Kroenen shrugged in answer. He was thinking positively; focused on the night ahead and his first opportunity at revenge.

"You don't care, do you?" Ilsa asked. She knew it wasn't true; the new slashes on his chest proved it. But some sadistic part of her wanted to hear him admit it, to hear him admit that he needed Rasputin—that he needed _her._

"I earned my punishment through my actions. It is only fitting I be forced to bear it," he replied, neatly evading her question.

Ilsa's lips contorted in a snarl. "Fine, _arschloch. _Don't get carried away with your knives—we need you in one piece for tonight." She stubbed out her cigarette on the wall and threw a glare at him over her shoulder as she strode out. When she was gone the roar of the flames in the furnace was all the louder, as if compensating for the silence.

Kroenen didn't give Ilsa's words a second thought; she was just in one of her moods again. He restlessly ran his hands over the blades laid out on his desk. _Blades that will soon be stained with my Angel's_ _blood, _he thought with satisfaction. He could barely contain his excitement; he would have paced the room if he didn't have so much self control.

This time compassion would _not_ interfere. He didn't have any. He _HATED_ Erica. There would be no consideration for their former friendship, no mercy for his rebelled student.

He impatiently tapped the fingertips of his mechanical hand against the table; his fingers moved like a spider's legs, impatient to pounce upon its prey. Kroenen's eyes fell on his left wrist and Erica's initials that he had gouged into his flesh sixty years ago. He would pay her back for the loss of his hand, too, he decided. Though he _did_ almost appreciate that she had given him the chance to explore his talents with science and black magic…

Kroenen's skeletal grin widened as a brilliant idea came to him. _Perhaps I should return the favor._

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Repair Room_

_Evening_

Erica hovered over the work table in one of the BPRD's repair rooms; most of the time the room was used by technicians who needed to fix equipment Hellboy had wrecked in the course of a mission. She was alone; Abe had left to swim in his tank while he waited for Agent Myers to arrive. He had wanted to meet the new Agent immediately, to see if the young man was up for his new job.

Erica had just finished sharpening her baton swords and oiling her wrist blades' release and locking mechanisms. She carefully replaced the baton swords in their black leather sheaths and wrapped each of the wrist blades in cloth so she wouldn't cut herself carrying them. _I'll take these to the garage, _she thought. _That way they'll be in the garbage truck when I need them._

She picked up the small pile and stepped out into the hall. _Two floors up, turn right, then left, _she thought to herself, planning the shortest route. She heard voices around the next corner; two men. _Agents,_ she thought. She didn't bother to listen to the voices; she was focused on her task. She started to turn the corner. _I wonder how Clay is? I haven't see him since—_

At that exact moment a young man came around the corner—and ran into her. The impact knocked the blades from her arms, but Erica stayed upright; she had braced herself a split second before the man ran into her. The young man, however, reeled backwards and nearly bumped into Professor Broom behind him.

"Sorry!" the young man said as he caught his balance. Without looking up at her he immediately knelt and reached for the scattered cloth-wrapped blades he'd knocked from her arms. "I'm so sorry! I didn't see you. It figures; my first day here and I already—is this a _knife?_"

He stood up, holding the blades. The one on top was a baton sword in its leather sheath; he stared at it like he'd just realized what he'd so hastily picked up. The young man finally directed his wide-eyed gaze at her.

"Ja. They're mine," she said, taking the blades from him as he held them out.

Professor Broom smiled and stepped up beside the young man. "Agent Myers, this is Erica Schwarz, another of our Special Agents."

"Uh, pleased to meet you," Myers said, shaking her hand. He ran a hand through his hair nervously. "I'm really sorry about your…knives."

"It's alright," she replied, smiling. Myers noticed her smiled was a little lopsided, distorted by the scar on her cheek, but it was sincere. Some of his nervousness evaporated. His eyes returned to the knives she held in her hands.

"What are they for?"

"Monster hunting," she said automatically. Then she realized Broom might not have told Myers what the BPRD did; she hastily looked at the Professor, who nodded reassuringly.

"It's alright," Professor Broom said, "I've been explaining our work."

"You really hunt monsters, huh?" Myers asked. He was obviously still getting used to the idea.

"Ja. I know something about monsters," she said darkly, averting her eyes from Myers and the blades in her arms; the knives suddenly reminded her too much of Kroenen.

"But why don't you use a gun?" Myers asked.

"Blades don't need to be reloaded."

Broom cleared his throat to get their attention. "We can talk as we continue on our way," Broom said, "Erica, come with us. I was explaining our current situation. Perhaps you could help fill in some details?"

Erica nodded and fell in step beside them; she and Myers slowed their pace so they stayed even with the limping Professor.

"You're a Special Agent? Like the fish guy?" Myers asked. Erica nodded. "Have you worked here long? Wait, you couldn't have. I mean, you're what? Twenty-two?"

Erica felt a little tense; she was already imagining what Myers's reaction to her would be when he found out she wasn't as 'normal' as he thought she was. New Agents always ended up asking questions that brought up unpleasant personal things, unintentionally throwing salt on the Special Agents' already open wounds. _But if Abe can endure Myers's questions, I can,_ she thought, _It's only the umpteenth time we've gotten a new Agent, after all._

"Nein, I'm eighty two," Erica replied.

Myers came to a sudden stop. He looked at her disbelievingly, but then his lips slid into a smile. "I see how it is, pick on the new guy. Very funny."

"I'm not joking," she gently insisted.

"That's impossible. You'd have been alive during WWII—"

"And she was," Professor Broom said, clearing his throat, "She's a former member of the Thule Occult Society that I mentioned earlier."

Erica flinched. Myers didn't notice, but Broom cast a sympathetic glance her way.

"You can't be serious," Myers insisted, "She'd look old; she'd have to be immortal—"

"I am," she said, "And before you say you don't believe me, it's no more unlikely than monster hunting. Which you are currently being employed to help with."

Myers was about to protest when he realized she had a point. "Okay," he said, taking a deep breath. He ran a hand through his hair again. "You're eighty two."

"To return to our current situation…" Broom said. "Background information: our current problem is the result of a battle that took place sixty years ago. At the time, Erica was a member of the Thule Society and the National Socialist German Workers' Party—"

"You're a _Nazi?!_" Myers blurted out. He stared at her with a mixture of shock and anger.

Erica shot the new Agent a look full of poison, despite knowing that Myers would have found out eventually. "_Ex_-Nazi," she insisted, her voice harsh, "Let the Professor continue."

"At least that explains why you speak German," Myers muttered; he looked at her mistrustfully.

"As I was saying," Broom continued, "Erica was an assassin for both, known commonly as the Angel of Death. But she betrayed the Nazis."

Myers raised his eyebrows in surprise and looked at her; Erica returned his gaze with a look that said '_I-told-you-so'_. Professor Broom continued, "She sent information to me that would allow the Allied Forces to prevent the Thule Society and Grigory Rasputin from unleashing the Seven Gods of Chaos. We succeeded, and Rasputin was—so we thought—destroyed."

"And now he's back?" Myers guessed.

The Professor nodded and rewarded him with a proud smile. "As well as his accomplices Karl Kroenen and Ilsa Haupstien. Of the two, the former is the one we're most concerned about. Kroenen is undead, and an assassin; he has a personal vendetta against Erica because of her betrayal."

"After sixty years? He has one _hell_ of a grudge against you," Myers observed.

"He was the Head of the Thule Occult Society. And my friend. Of course he does."

"So he's trying to kill you?"

"Yes. Which is another reason I'm carrying these knives."

"So you want _me _to help you fight them?" Myers asked the Professor.

"Not exactly. We want you to be part of the BPRD, part of the big machine that supports the ones that do the fighting," Broom explained.

"This is a lot to take in," Myers said, "I think it'll make more sense when I can actually see some of it."

"Sometimes the realest things in life are the things you _can't_ see; the things you _haven't_ seen," Erica said.

"Like ghosts?" Myers asked skeptically.

"Exactly."

"_Jesus._ Ghosts are real, too?"

"Ja."

"Really."

"You don't believe in ghosts because you haven't seen one, correct?" Erica said. Myers nodded. "But you believe in God, don't you, Agent Myers? And I'm willing to bet you've never seen Him either. Or Hell, or Heaven. Yet you believe."

Professor Broom smiled. Myers was simply lost for words. He was humbled. _How am I supposed to answer that?_ He wondered.

Erica's expression softened. "Keep an open mind, Agent Myers. Your transition here will be easier that way." She looked up and realized where they were; the stairs to the floor the garage was on were only a few feet away. "I have to be going; I need to take these blades up to the garage," she told the Professor. She turned to Myers. "It was nice meeting you. I hope you decide to stay; I think you'd be a valuable addition to our team." She smiled at Myers and started for the stairs.

"You do?" Myers asked.

Erica paused on the bottom step. "Ja, I do. I think you've handled all the information rather well. No screaming, cursing, tears…" she grinned, "Good luck, Agent."

And with that she started up the stairs, her footsteps echoing loudly off the grey concrete walls.

XXXXX

_New York_

_The Machen Library_

_Night_

CRACK!

The wet sound of the library guard's skull shattering under the blow of the sledgehammer was deafening in the silence of the dark alley. Ilsa smiled as the man collapsed; she wiped a drop of his warm blood from her cheek and then casually reached down and relieved the dead man of his ring of keys. She ignored the mass of blood and bone that had been the guard's head and gracefully stepped over him to reach the back door of the Machen Library. The key turned soundlessly in the well oiled lock and in a moment she was inside. The library was dead quiet. _But not for long, _she thought, smiling secretively. She avoided the security cameras and edged open the door to a back staircase. She slipped inside and started climbing; she only needed to go up a floor or two.

Kroenen, meanwhile, was on the roof. The concrete was wet from the brief rain earlier in the day, and dead leaves lay plastered against the rough surface. Kroenen knelt among them, peering down through a yellow tinted skylight. Inside the museum the lights were dim and the room was empty, save for the statues staring with empty eyes from the glass cases.

The clockwork man inspected the skylight; like the others on the roof, the museum curator had neglected to have security devices put on it when he'd had the museum's security system installed. Kroenen quickly removed the rusted bolts that held the skylight down and then set the edge of a crowbar under the lip of the skylight. He levered down; the edge of the skylight separated from the roof with a soft cracking sound as the old caulk gave way. He paused, waiting to see if any of the guards inside had heard. When no one appeared on the floor below, Kroenen returned to his task, working his way around the four sides of the skylight. The cold wind blew away the shreds of cracked, dry caulk that fell to the roof.

_When I get inside I'll climb down the wall, cross the floor, and climb one of the balcony columns, _he thought, inspecting the room from his vantage point as he worked. _I can wait there unseen until Ilsa is on the same floor._

He slid his gloved fingers under the edge of the skylight and pulled it up enough so he could slip inside when he was ready.

_A few simple murders to start the night off right_, Kroenen thought. He felt exhilarated. Below him, a bored and unsuspecting guard passed through the room, doing his rounds. _Give life to the Hound of Resurrection. And then to meet with Erica._

His scarred face twitched as he unconsciously tried to grin. He would enjoy this. _Immensely_.

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Garage_

_Night_

Within minutes of the alarms screaming out "_CODE RED!_" at the volume of an air raid siren, Hellboy and Agent Clay strode into the BPRD's garage with Myers in tow. As usual the huge concrete room was a beehive of activity. Myers looked around, obviously dizzied by the hustle and bustle as agents raced by with their ties flapping.

Hellboy spotted Erica and Abe—both smiling—carrying Abe's respirator and other equipment up the ramp of the renovated garbage truck.

"Nice to see somebody's happy around here," Hellboy said, pausing in the middle of the doorway. His tail swished from side to side and nearly tripped a passing agent.

"Abe and Erica, you mean?" Clay asked; he looked sideways at Hellboy. "You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"They're…together," the Agent said and nodded at the truck.

"Really? Huh." Hellboy grinned and started towards the truck just as Erica left it, headed for a pile of crates a few meters from the truck.

Hellboy stomped up the ramp, grinning at the fish man. "Blue, all these years I thought you were a fish. Turns out you're really a lovebird, huh?"

As Hellboy had expected, Abe's gills fluttered rapidly and turned a dark red-orange; his face flushed to a deep blue. "I—um—" the fish man stuttered, caught off guard by Hellboy's words.

"Good to know you two finally got it together," Hellboy said, genuinely happy. He clapped his friend on the back so hard Abe was knocked forward a few inches. "I was worried you were too shy!"

"…Thanks?" Abe replied.

Meanwhile Myers was still standing in the doorway to the garage, feeling lost and stupid and sheepish. _What am I supposed to be doing?_ he wondered as he watched the agents making their own preparations for the mission.

"Myers!" someone called; the voice was undeniably seasoned with a German accent. _Erica,_ Myers thought; he turned and, sure enough, saw Erica beckoning to him. He hesitated; now that he saw her from far away he realized that her clothes—especially the black trench coat—reminded him of an SS soldier. _No,_ he thought, reassuring himself as he walked towards her, _it's alright; she betrayed them. She works here. The Professor said she's nice…_

"Here," Erica said; she tossed something at him. Myers caught it automatically and was a surprised to see he was holding a handgun and a packet of bullets.

"You'll need that," Erica explained, "It can get dangerous."

"Then why aren't you armed?" Myers asked.

"Hey, Boy Scout!" Hellboy yelled, leaning around the corner of the truck. Feeling humiliated, and even more so that he answered to the nickname, Myers turned around to see the red demon pointing at him with a stone finger. "I'd listen to her. You're in for a crash course in fightin' monsters."

"_O-kay_..." Myers muttered under his breath. When he turned back to Erica she was expertly flipping a long dagger into the air with one hand; there was a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"_What the_— Where did that come from?"

For answer she caught the blade in her left hand, then reached down into her right boot and, to Myer's surprise, drew the dagger's twin from somewhere inside. Erica flipped both knives into the air; Myers couldn't help but follow the blades' glittering arc until she skillfully caught them again by the hilts.

"I'm _always _armed," she said in explanation. In one fluid movement she slid the daggers back into her jackboots and bent over to rummage through the crate again. "Here. Standard issue," she said, handing him an earphone and a belt with equipment clipped to it.

"Uh, thanks…By the way—and you don't have to answer this, but—the knives…are you really an assassin?"

Erica grinned at him. "I'm not an assassin; I'm a health alteration specialist with a permit for concealed weapons," she said lightly. "Sounds much more positive than 'assassin', doesn't it?"

His reaction must have shown on his face because her smile widened and she said, "Just kidding. I used to be. Comes in handy now. Any other questions?"

_Questions? My head is full of them! _Myers thought. He picked the first that came to mind and nodded towards the garbage truck. "Does he really hate me?"

"Hellboy? I doubt it. He's always a little gruff after he's been grounded. By the way, when you're ready, get in the passenger's seat of the garbage truck. You're Hellboy's liaison; you travel with us."

She turned around and headed for the garbage truck's ramp, leaving Myers's head spinning. _But at least I have a course of action now,_ he thought, clipping on the belt.

"Why is it always Halloween when these things happen?" Hellboy asked the air as Erica came up the ramp.

"I doubt it's a coincidence," Abe said as he pulled on his gloves. "Volker's warning, Rasputin's resurrection—" he was interrupted by the sound of the closing ramp and starting engine.

"Oh well. At least I get to shoot something," Hellboy said; he ran his hand over the battered box that contained his cannon-sized gun. The truck started forward and he braced himself against the sudden movement. He glanced at Erica, who was securing her wrist blades to her arms. She slipped a dagger into her belt and reached for her baton swords. "Uh, E? What're you doin'?"

"It doesn't hurt to be prepared," she answered. Her voice was muffled as she leaned over to strap the black leather sheaths to her legs. "Grigory and the others could be here by now. If I'm unprepared, with my luck that'll be when Kroenen decides to show up; I have no desire to be at his complete mercy again."

HB grunted in response and slid back the thick metal door that covered the one-way-mirror window. Bright city lights glared out from the darkness.

Erica's stomach twisted uneasily; a premonition. _Or stress, given what's happened over the past day or so, _she thought. But no. She knew better than to ignore her instincts; if something told her she was in danger, she had better _listen._ Kroenen had taught her that. An image of Kroenen's mask appeared in her mind's eye and she shuddered and pulled her trench coat tighter around her body. _What if I do run into him?_

_You'll do exactly what you think you should, _Abe thought at her.

Hellboy turned on the radio. "Bad Moon Risin'," he muttered, grimacing. He turned it off again. "_Not_ a good omen."

Author's Notes: I hope everyone liked how Erica and Myers met; I felt having them meet in Broom's study was overdone, so I tried to be creative. And I always wondered how Ilsa got into the library, so I came up with my own answer. As for how Kroenen got in, there _really is _a skylight. You can see it when Sammael is hanging from the ceiling. I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter; please review!


	13. Cruel Intentions

**Chapter 13: Cruel Intentions**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Luke, Agatha, Richard, the various werewolves, and the plot that isn't from the movie belong to me.

Author's Notes: Thanks for the reviews! And look, a nice number 13 for a chapter that will have many unlucky turns of events for several characters. Contrary to popular belief, I have _not _fallen off the edge of the Earth; sorry about the long wait for the chapter, but with everything happening in it I think it will have been well worth the wait! As always here are the German to English translations: 'Mein Gott' is My God. Enjoy the chapter!

**Elena-Unduli:** Yes, Ilsa x Kroenen is very odd. But what do you expect? Ilsa, to me, with her relationships with Kroenen and Rasputin just seems like the kind of person who wants to eat her cake and have it, too.

**musicamode:** Bad Moon Risin' is one of my favorite songs; I just had to find some way to work it in, and that was perfect!

**Schemergirl:** The hard part about writing Myers reaction to Erica is making sure I don't repeat ideas from earlier in the story; that would be boring. But, seeing as you enjoyed it, I must have managed it pretty well!

**amyltrer:** You bet Erica will be meeting Kroenen in this chapter! evil laughter And I fully intend to keep tormenting Kroenen, especially in chapter 14.

**DarkCloudRider:** Thanks again for the idea about Luke having had a stroke; I mentioned it in this chapter!

"If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared."—Niccolo Machiavelli

"'Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood and do such bitter business as the day would quake to look on."—Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

"Cruelty is like bad manners; display it and be shunned. Engage in it and be shamed. Encourage in it and be nothing but an animal."—Anonymous

_New York Alleys_

_Halloween Night_

By the time Hellboy had been thrown through the window, fallen several stories, gotten up, and run into the strange, vanishing man in sunglasses, they had all split up. Abe and Broom were still in the library, but as for the others… Hellboy took his eyes off the fleeing Sammael and spared a glance backwards. Myers was behind him, but Erica was nowhere in sight. It was Myers fault: the newbie agent hadn't followed Erica when she had raced outside to help Hellboy, and as a result they had accidentally gone in opposite directions. Which meant Hellboy had no reliable backup, because Erica was presumably lost in the maze of back alleys.

_Not that I need any help, _Hellboy thought. _I just like knowing where everybody is._ _Guess E's still trying to find us. Damn Myers. _

Then he saw what was ahead of him: a busboy had propped open the back door of a restaurant's kitchen to get some fresh air, and he was leaning against the frame taking a smoke break.

The Hell Hound and the boy spotted each other at exactly the same time. The teenager stared, open mouthed, as Sammael snarled, his jaws slavering, and swerved towards the door.

"Aw _crap!_" Hellboy cursed. He ran faster and was on the monster's heels as it crashed through the doorway. Hellboy raced past the dazed busboy, now lying in the alley, and stepped inside the kitchen. The demon squinted as the bright lights assaulted his eyes and saw Sammael tearing through the kitchen, flinging the green glowing tracking goop everywhere, and scattering pots and screaming chefs in all directions.

"Hey! You can't come in here!" the busboy yelled.

"Sorry!" Hellboy heard Myers reply as the agent entered the kitchen anyway.

Hellboy rolled his eyes and took off after Sammael; the red demon swung himself over a counter and landed on the other side with a floor shuddering thud. The monster roared and crashed unheedingly through a cart piled high with dishes and glassware; the resulting cacophony of breaking china nearly drowned out the monster's snarl as it turned its attentions to the Head Chef. Hellboy started forward—a pot of scalding soup was splashed over his head.

"_Ow!_ What was that for?!" Hellboy growled; he wiped at his eyes and glared down at the panicked cook who had attacked him. The blood drained from the cook's face as he clutched the empty soup pot, and then the man fainted—and fell on Hellboy's tail.

"_Damn it!_" the demon cursed as he tugged his throbbing tail free. He turned his attention back to the kitchen and spotted the Head Chef expertly wielding a meat cleaver to ward off Sammael; the monster growled with frustration as the Head Chef managed to land a blow to the monster's snout.

"Ha! Take that!" the Head Chef yelled, grinning.

To Hellboy's surprise Sammael actually backed off—and bounded through the swinging double doors that led into the restaurant.

"Oh _no_ you don't!" Hellboy yelled, dashing after it.

Hellboy burst through the kitchen doors and into the dining room of a _very_ fancy restaurant. Everyone in the restaurant stood stock still for a moment, staring open-mouthed at Hellboy and the Hell Hound. Sammael sat on his haunches, his head swinging from side to side as if in confusion, as green tracking goop dripped onto the plush red carpet from the monster's wound. A very pale maître d' standing near the doors looked Hellboy up and down and stuttered out, "Sir, you are dressed inappropriately to be in this establishment."

"Oh yeah? And _that_ isn't?" Hellboy demanded, pointing to Sammael. Sammael obligingly turned his grotesque head to face the maître d'; his four eyes rolled and his tentacles writhed as he snorted, sending a blast of foul breath right into the man's face. The remaining blood drained from the maître d's face and a mouse-like squeak escaped from his trembling lips as he hid his face behind the round tray he was carrying.

"I thought you'd see things my way," Hellboy said.

And then Sammael roared. The restaurant's patrons sat frozen with fear; then a woman screamed and everything became chaos as the monster bounded through the restaurant, overturning tables. Sammael grabbed a table and threw it at Hellboy; the table smashed into pieces as it hit the wall above the demon's head, showering him with chunks of wood and splinters.

Myers finally disentangled himself from the chaos of the kitchen and stumbled out into the restaurant in time to see Sammael crash through the large front window, followed by Hellboy, who struck the pavement and was immediately off and running after Sammael. The front door was jammed full of fleeing patrons and waiters; Myers hesitated and then leapt through the window and followed Hellboy down the alley beside the restaurant. The alley was blocked by _another_ high wall. And judging by the annoying _beep, beep, beep_ of a truck backing up, there were _more _civilians on the other side.

_Great, _Myers thought sarcastically, _Just great._

XXXXX

_A Street in New York_

"Damn Myers," Erica muttered as she shouldered past the brightly costumed revelers clogging the sidewalk. She wasn't angry; she was more irritated than anything else. _Who would've thought Myers would go the right way and that I'd end up lost?_

She crossed the street, looking left and right as she went, then followed the sidewalk on the other side. Her visions weren't doing her much good: every time she stopped to concentrate on Hellboy's location, he was the same distance away. He was moving too quickly for her to keep up, and Erica was getting frustrated.

She saw a haggard, thin man leaning against a telephone pole; his oddly bright green eyes stared at her from a pointed, jaundiced face. He was a poltergeist. She purposefully met the poltergeist's gaze; he grinned and then turned his attention elsewhere, knowing she was no target for his playful mischief. As she passed him he made an odd gesture at a child; the boy's bag, bulging with candy, spilt at the seams and spilled chocolate and lollypops across the sidewalk. The poltergeist laughed and grinned madly.

Erica kept walking; the poltergeist wasn't doing anything destructive, so she wouldn't interfere. She had a Hell Hound to find.

When she had left the Machen Library Abe had told her to be careful, and she intended to be. Besides the Hell Hound and the possibility that Rasputin and the others were nearby, Halloween was walking the streets of New York. Most of the people out tonight were just out to have fun, but there were also a scattering of things that were _not_ in costume, things that were _real_, things that were walking unseen because of the anonymity granted to them by the sea of masks. The poltergeist was proof of that.

But regardless of whether they were people or otherwise, they were all in her way. _All the sidewalks in New York and half the population has to be on this one, _she thought as she pushed against the flow of human bodies. She concentrated on Hellboy again and got an image of him in an alley—

"Hey, great costume!" someone shouted at her. The shout broke Erica's concentration and her mental image dissolved. She suppressed an irritated sigh and turned around to face a woman dressed head to toe in orange; a gaudily painted cardboard cut-out of a pumpkin hung from a string around the woman's neck.

"What're you supposed to be? A ninja?" the pumpkin-woman asked, smiling.

Erica caught sight of her own colorless reflection in the polished glass of a shop window. _I am a bit wild looking,_ _but I have reason to be,_ she thought._ And where the hell are Myers and Hellboy now?_

"No, no, I got it wrong, didn't I?" the pumpkin-woman asked.

"A vampire, maybe? From that new movie, whats-it-called?" suggested the pumpkin-woman's friend. He was dressed like a ladybug, complete with a ridiculous headband that had antennae on it.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Erica said simply. Behind the ridiculously dressed pair she saw a dark opening in the row of shops: an alley.

She pushed past the man and women—they didn't notice; they were standing in the middle of the sidewalk, engaged in a discussion about the name of the movie, blocking the way for all the other now disgruntled pedestrians—and started down the alley.

_Now I'm getting somewhere, _she thought. Suddenly her earphone crackled to life.

"E, where the _hell_ are you?" Hellboy demanded. He sounded pissed off, but not at her. She could hear very noisy traffic in the background; it was so loud it sounded like he was standing in the middle of a road. And knowing him, that wasn't all that unlikely.

"Lost and trying to find you. Where are you?"

"Chasin' stinky, where else?"

"I need a _location_, HB. Like whatever road you're standing in the middle of."

Hellboy only grunted in response. "Listen, E, I got this. Go back to the library. Mr. Blue Fins could use the help. He wants you to look at something."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," came his curt reply.

Erica sighed. She'd spent the past few minutes running around the streets of New York and hadn't even gotten to see any of the action. _But that might be a good thing, _she reflected, _considering my high degree of involvement with the last two missions. And anyway, Hellboy needs to get his attitude worked out of his system. He's always like this after he's grounded._

"Hey, Abe?" she said, speaking into her earphone.

"Yes?"

"I'm on my way back. Hellboy says he's got it under control."

She decided to walk through the alleys to get back to the Machen Library. The sidewalks were so crowed that it would actually be faster, and it wasn't like she was afraid of being mugged or anything. She was safe.

XXXXX

_An Alley in New York_

Kroenen crouched on the edge of the apartment building roof, waiting. The wind blew against his back, curled around him, and swirled off into the darkness, but he wasn't cold. He looked over the rooftops; he was only a block or so from the Machen Library. Erica was nearby; he could feel her presence on the edge of his mind. The sand in his veins writhed as he felt her frustration come to him through the blood bond he shared with her. Yes, she was very close. All he had to do was wait.

He was a patient man, but his excitement was making it difficult for him to sit still; he took off his left glove and idly picked at the crumbling cement on the edge of the roof, crushing it between his mechanical fingertips. In the past sixty years Kroenen hadn't faced a foe who had succeeded in doing anything more serious than harassing him. Tonight that would change. _I've been looking forward to this fight with you, Erica, _he thought, gazing out over the rooftops.

The assassin's muscles tensed as his eyes caught moment in the alley below. His waiting had been rewarded; the streetlight at the end of the alley cast just enough light for him to recognize the young woman wearing a black trench coat: Erica.

_How convenient. She's alone. I thought she might be,_ Kroenen thought. His fingers gripped the key of his clockwork heart; a few practiced flicks of his wrist had his clockwork ticking smoothly, ready for action. _I know my Angel too well, _he thought with satisfaction. He silently descended from his perch and started down the fire escape. _She's walked right into my trap._

Down in the alley, the blue light of the locator on Erica's belt shone eerily in the darkness as she strode along. She hummed a vague tune under her breath, idly trying to remember the words. _It really is a nice night; I wish I could just join the crowds and enjoy it. And I can't imagine Abe _really_ needs me for anything back at the library…_

A bizarre, tingly sensation set the skin on her neck crawling; the disquieting sensation moved down from her neck to her shoulders, and then down her back, following her spine. Erica's humming died away and she shuddered violently.

Someone—or something, given that it was Halloween—was watching her.

Erica reached for the handles of her baton swords; her hands slid easily around the hilts, almost like she was slipping on a pair of favorite gloves. She gripped the hilts and stopped walking. She glanced around, pretending to be casual about it. The alley was empty except for the misshapen, grotesque shadows of a dumpster and some overflowing trashcans.

_Still, that feeling…_

The presence was oddly familiar; dark—something she felt more instinctively than with her senses. She strained her ears for the slightest sound and peered into the darkness that surrounded her. Her efforts were useless: the dim, sickly yellow light of the distant streetlight was too far away; the alley was hung with thick folds of darkness that seemed to ooze from the brick walls. Now she was uneasy. Erica turned around in a full circle, not bothering to be subtle about it. But there was nothing there.

Above her Kroenen slunk through the shadows that clung to the fire escape, silently advancing towards the object of his murderous obsession. He silently clambered onto the railing of the fire escape and perched above Erica, his eyes locked on her. Only a short drop of a few feet separated them. He watched her; she was completely oblivious of his presence but seemed aware of her impending doom: she was scanning every inch of her surroundings. Kroenen's hands tightened on the railing and his muscles tensed as he prepared to spring.

And that was when he spotted the puddle of rainwater near her feet—and that the dark water was reflecting his mask as if he were looking into a mirror.

_Scheiße! _Kroenen cursed mentally. He had made a mistake.

Erica turned in place. _Nothing. There's nothing here,_ she thought, trying to reinforce what her eyes told her. But her gut instinct still rebelled.

The cold autumn wind whistled down the alley, bringing an odd scent to her nose. It, too, was familiar; like leather and boot polish and something else she couldn't quite place. But it didn't matter; the scent set her nerves on fire and they screamed danger at her. The softly moaning wind caught several withered leaves and caused them to take a life of their own; they skittered mouse-like across the pavement at her feet. Unnerved, Erica glanced down at the dry rustle and spotted a puddle with the reflection of the starless night sky on its surface. The position of the reflected moon reminded her how late it was. _I should be getting back. Wait. What the…?_ She peered down at the puddle. Something else was reflected in the dark water. Something hanging above her. And wearing a familiar black mask.

_Kroenen._

Erica's heart stopped. She stared, horror-struck by the unexpected, nightmarish image. She was suddenly aware of the soft ticking filling the night air, and of the other smell she hadn't been able to place. It was _blood_. A scream thrashed around in her throat, trying to claw its way out, but she silenced it by biting her lip so hard that she tasted blood.

Slowly, she raised her head. Two soulless dark lenses stared back down at her.

And then Kroenen jumped from the fire escape.

Erica didn't think; she quickly backed out from under him and drew her baton swords. A short distance away from her Kroenen landed gracefully—but disturbingly spider-like—on his feet with his baton swords drawn. The blades glittered malevolently; the eyes of his mask were fixed on her. Erica's heart started up again, hammering loudly in her chest as her brain screamed at her to run, _run_, _RUN!_ She ignored it; if she ran she would end up with a knife in her back.

"_Erica,_" Kroenen hissed softly, menacingly; _murderously._

Slowly, elegantly, Kroenen moved to her right, trying to circle around her and unnerve her at the same time. She turned so she could keep facing him directly; if she lost sight of him she'd be dead—

Kroenen rushed at her and she blocked his blades, fending off the attack as he passed. She raised her blades to attack—he was gone. He had disappeared into the shadows.

"_Damn_ it," Erica muttered, cursing the darkness. She wished the light from the distant street penetrated the alley; being blind around Kroenen was a death sentence. He, unlike her, could see in the dark. Which meant he knew where she was. Erica looked around nervously, her heart hammering. Kroenen's raspy breathing was practically in her ear—and _still_ she couldn't see him. There was a rush of movement behind her and she whirled around as his swords came down, shining like lightening in the dark alley and slicing towards her throat and stomach. She blocked his blades, and before the sharp sound of clashing metal had died he had melted into the night again, leaving her breathless.

_He's too damned fast,_Erica thought. She turned in place, determined not to let him get behind her again. He was like a shadow: invisible in the night and as impossible to catch as smoke.

"Enjoying our game of cat and mouse?" Kroenen's disembodied voice called mockingly from the darkness surrounding her.

"Stop toying with me," Erica snapped, scanning the shadows as she tried to pinpoint where his voice was coming from. "If you're going to attack me, just do it!"

"But where's the fun in that? There would be no time for you to prepare for a good fight—and that would be _so_ disappointing for me, when I've been looking forward to it for all these years. I don't want to just kill you and be done with it; I want it to be something worth _remembering_."

The assassin watched Erica from the shadows; the suspense of waiting for his next attack was practically killing her. _She's afraid,_ he thought with a thrill. Everything about her—her movements, her expressions, her breathing—told him she was wonderfully, _deliciously_ afraid of him.

He saw Erica glance furtively at the shadows and then reach for the blue light on her locator, intending to alert the others that she was in danger.

"Oh, no, _Erica_," Kroenen hissed, spitting her name like a curse. "_No_ one will interfere!"

He sheathed his left baton sword and rushed from the darkness as she turned towards his voice. He grabbed her arm, slipped behind her, and put his blade to her throat. Kroenen felt Erica's body tense as she froze, not daring to move. He held her arm in an iron grip and yanked roughly, pulling her backwards until she ran into his chest. She was trapped!

"That's better, Erica. It's astonishing how well you can behave when you have a knife at your throat," he murmured. "You're making this much more difficult than it needs to be."

"Difficult? Of course I am! I don't _want _to die!" Erica gritted out through her clenched teeth. Her fear had made her angry.

"I know." Kroenen released his bruising grip on her arm but kept the blade at her throat with the edge digging into her skin, threatening to cut. "So don't move. You know the consequences should you disobey."

Kroenen's left hand reached for the utility belt clipped around her waist. Erica shuddered with anger and disgust as she felt his fingers fasten on the belt's clasp and begin to undo it one handed.

"Get your _damn_ hands _off_ of me!"

"Shh," he murmured. He dug the blade into her throat a little harder to silence her. "I'm as eager to get back to our fight as you are. I just want to ensure we aren't interrupted by any of your _friends_."

With a soft metallic clatter the clasp came undone and the belt came loose. Kroenen held it up so she could see it and then deliberately closed his left hand around the glowing blue light—and crushed it.

The crunch of the splintering plastic and metal made Erica's stomach twist sickeningly. Her hope of help vanished. _Scheiße, _she thought. A moment later Kroenen grabbed the earphone clipped to her ear and ripped the device off; he tossed it down the alley and it was swallowed by the night.

Kroenen held his hand up in front of her face. Erica tensed, expecting him to hit her, and then stared with a kind of fascinated horror. _Is his hand…metal?_ An uncomfortable memory flashed before her mind's eye: she had stabbed his left wrist as they fought in the ruins; doubtless the explosion of the portal generator had finished the destruction she had begun.

Kroenen flexed his fingers and rolled his wrist. "Ingenious, isn't it?" He didn't wait for a reply; he seized her ponytail and pulled, forcing her head backwards and exposing her throat even more. Now it was hard for her to breathe; he savored the moment as he listened to her gasping for breath. There was an edge of panic to her breathing, now; his skeletal grin widened and he twined his mechanical fingers through her hair.

"And just think, I owe it all to you," he murmured in her ear; his voice, dangerously calm and polite, dripped with venom. "I'm not bitter at all. And to prove my gratitude, I'm going to return the favor."

Erica's stomach clenched. _OH. MY. GOD. _Her mind raced as she desperately tried to think of a way out that wouldn't end with her throat cut or one of her hands severed. She had to do something. _NOW._

"Right hand or left?" he asked. "I'm actually giving you a choice; something you didn't give—"

Erica slammed her body backwards against his chest. Kroenen stumbled and the arm holding his baton sword left her throat and flailed at the air—Erica swiftly brought her baton sword up to protect her throat; there was a horrible, metallic shriek as the two blades connected. Kroenen pulled at her hair—she whipped her other baton sword behind her head and sheared off the few inches of hair he was holding onto. She spun around to face him.

They stood a few feet apart, staring at each other. Erica's chest heaved and the unevenly cut ends of her hair fell gently around her face and tickled her neck. The eyes of Kroenen's mask glinted eerily as he gazed down at the short chestnut strands of hair he held; he dropped them and they drifted down to the pavement.

He came at her; his attack forced her back against the rough brick wall of the alley. One of his baton swords glanced off her crossed blades and sank into the brick an inch from her head. He snarled, tugged his blade free, and struck at her again, twisting one of his blades so it caught one of her baton swords and tore it from her grasp; her blade landed several feet away, out of her reach. Kroenen immediately snatched at her wrist and hurled her away from the wall and out into the alley—Erica's arms flailed as she tried to regain her balance—he hooked one of his feet around her ankle and pulled—Erica's legs slipped out from under her and she fell to the ground with a cry. Her face smashed into the ground and the rough pavement spilt her lip open. She spotted her utility belt lying on the ground beside her and her heart leapt as she spotted the dagger on it. _Maybe if I can reach—!_ The piercing whistle of Kroenen's descending blades alerted her to her danger; she rolled over and brought up her remaining baton sword as his blades came down on her body.

_CRASH!_

He pressed down, mercilessly forcing the sharp edge of her own sword closer and closer to her face. Erica's arm shook as she tried desperately to maintain the few precious inches of space between her face and the blades. Her free hand scrabbled frantically at the ground as she tried to reach her utility belt; her fingers touched the cool handle of the dagger and she snatched at it, then pulled it free! She spotted Kroenen's boot—and stabbed him. She felt the blade go through the leather boot and sink into his flesh. Kroenen snarled and backed off as she pulled the dagger free; by the time she scrambled to her feet he was on her again.

Erica realized she had to do something. She couldn't fight forever, and she couldn't kill Kroenen because he couldn't die. She simply could not win. She had to buy herself some time; with any luck BPRD would figure out that she was missing and send help. But she wouldn't live that long unless she could keep Kroenen away from her. Maybe surprising him would make him more cautious of her and give her time. But what was something he wouldn't expect from her? _He wouldn't expect surrender, but that wouldn't get me anywhere. I have to defend myself, _she thought as she blocked another blow._ I have to fight, and Kroenen expects me to fight—but he _wouldn't_ expect me to run! Of course, neither would I._ _I can't outrun him, and if I lose sight of him, I'll be dead for sure._

She took a deep breath; she knew what she was about to do was practically suicidal. Kroenen's baton sword sliced towards her—Erica ducked under his arm and plunged her dagger deep into his stomach, then pulled up sharply on the blade, slicing through cloth and flesh. White sand poured from the gash like water; dust rose in the clear night air as the sand cascaded down Kroenen's body.

Erica let go of the dagger and scooped up her baton sword from the ground. And she _ran._

Kroenen stood still for a moment, just as surprised by her attack and his wound as much as he was surprised by the incredibly stupid decision Erica had just made. But he recovered quickly._ If I was really trying to kill you, Erica, you'd get yourself killed faster by trying to escape from me this way, _he thought. He plucked her dagger from his stomach and tossed it away. He ran after her. The assassin lived for the chase, the _hunt_; he knew Erica wouldn't get far: he'd already tired her with their battle. She glanced back at him as she ran; her pale face was like a glowing beacon in the darkness, and Kroenen saw her eyes widen with fear as she realized he was following her.

Erica ran; her jackboots pounded against the pavement and splashed through a muddy puddle that had spread out from a blocked gutter. Kroenen's footsteps were silent; she had no idea how close or far behind he was.

And at the moment, she was too afraid to look.

XXXXX

_A Street in New York_

Myers's hand was covered in blood, and his arm was throbbing painfully. Not far from where he stood, the road was blocked by the van Hellboy had smashed, as well as by the cars that had swerved to avoid colliding with the van. Police car lights flashed and civilians milled around, trying to get a closer look at the road. And now Hellboy was _gone_.

_I can't believe this. My_ _first day on the job and I nearly get eaten by a monster, run over by a car, and then the guy I'm supposed to be watching gives me the slip, _Myers thought. _And now I'm going to have to tell the Professor. Great. Just great._

XXXXX

_The Machen Library_

_New York_

Broom watched as agents went about their designated jobs; some marked off the smashed glass cases with tape, others snapped photographs or wrote on notepads. Abe was in the center of the room, standing over a pile of broken glass and what was unmistakably a black rose and baton sword—both of which, Broom knew, had to belong to Kroenen; Erica had never entered the library. Abe hadn't touched them yet; he was waiting for Erica to get back so he could see if she had any ideas about why they had been left behind.

"Professor."

Broom turned to see Manning approaching him, stiff and frowning as usual. Manning opened his mouth to continue—Agent Moss suddenly appeared beside Broom and cut in.

"Myers just called in," Agent Moss reported, ignoring Manning's irritated frown. "The bad news is Hellboy is missing. He turned off his locator and no one's been able to reach him since then."

Professor Broom's heart sank, but he couldn't say he was surprised—just disappointed. He glanced at Manning and saw the man's face contort with frustration and anger; Agent Moss saw it too and smiled sheepishly at the Professor, as if to apologize for his bad timing.

"The good news is that Hellboy killed Sammael," Agent Moss said. "And all the agents are accounted for and uninjured with the exception of Agent Myers, who sustained some minor cuts and bruises on his arm from being hit by a car."

"Great. I love it when I don't have to inform the departed's dear ones that it's going to be a closed casket funeral," Manning said in an irritated tone.

The Professor ignored him; he was used to Manning by now. _Very_ used to him; Broom smiled slightly, he knew word for word the speech Manning was about to make about how Hellboy kept escaping.

"And Erica?" Abe asked, approaching them.

Moss frowned. "I don't know. Myers didn't say anything about her."

"She should have been back by now, Professor," Abe said, his dark eyes full of worry.

"I agree," Broom replied.

"I'll check where she is," Moss said. He pulled a PDA from his pocket and turned it on; the small display revealed an electronic map of New York City. Moss used the stylus to zoom in on the area around the library and then handed the PDA to Professor Broom. Now the map was covered in tiny blinking blue dots labeled with names; if Hellboy hadn't vanished to visit Liz, there would have been a red dot on the map to represent him. Yellow dotted lines traced the paths the blue dots had taken. Broom's eyes searched the map for Erica's name. He didn't see it, so, thinking he had missed it, he scanned the screen again. And then again.

"Erica isn't on it," Abe said quietly.

The fish man pointed to a yellow dotted line that ended abruptly in a maze of alleys, as if it had been sheared off with an axe. There was no dot, no name.

"Her locator must have been damaged," Moss suggested. "Or she turned it off for some reason. We can call her, see if she answers her earphone."

"That won't be necessary," said Abe quietly. His voice was strained, and there was a faraway look in his black eyes that the Professor knew meant the fish man was psychically searching for Erica. "She's not wearing it anymore. Kroenen found her."

There was dead silence for several seconds. "Where is she?" Broom asked, his voice tense with worry. His pulse shot up until his heart was racing dizzyingly, and he clutched his cane for support.

Abe shook his head, his brow furrowed with frustration and concern. "I don't know. Alleys, somewhere. But she's still alive."

"Great time for Hellboy to be missing," Moss said tensely, he ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of anxiety. "Just goes to show that no matter how bad the situation is, it can get worse. I'll send some agents to look for—"

"No. Don't," Abe said, his voice heavy. He shook his head slowly. "It won't do any good. Erica could be anywhere, and sending agents out to look for her will only risk more lives. Erica can do this. I know she can. We just have to wait, and do what we can here…."

For a moment, Broom forgot himself, and reached out to put a comforting hand on the fish man's slumped shoulders, but just as the Professor realized what he was doing and pulled away, Abe turned and silently wandered back to the sword and rose lying on the floor.

Manning raised an eyebrow. "What's with him?"

XXXXX

_An Alley in New York_

The cold autumn air ripped through Erica's throat as she gasped for breath. Kroenen was still behind her. She had tried to lose the assassin by turning down other alleys, but had only succeeded in getting herself lost.

And behind her, Kroenen—_damn him!_—was adding to her fear for his own amusement; his whispery, harsh voice carried through the night so clearly that it was as if he was beside her as he hissed out an obscene, chant-like lullaby:

"_Soon I'll lay you down to sleep, I pray that Hell, your soul to keep…_"

Ahead of her, Erica spotted a break in the alley where another alley crossed it: another alley she could run down, a way for her to escape from the nightmarish maze of concrete and brick. A faint spark of hope rose in her and she ran faster, though her muscles burned and threatened to cramp. _Maybe if—I—can get—ahead,_ she thought.

"_If you should die before my thirst for blood I slake, I pray that Darkness, your soul to _take!"

She reached the crossroads and went left—a black form leapt at her from the cover of a cluster of trashcans! Erica yelped and jerked away, but she wasn't fast enough; the black form barked as she crashed into it and they both tumbled to the ground; the pavement bit roughly into her knees and cheek and forehead. Erica moaned and slowly sat up, slightly stunned. Blood dripped from the cuts on her face. A yard away the very large stray dog scrambled to its feet and growled at her before it took off and vanished into the darkness.

Erica got to her feet and glanced behind her. She almost died: Kroenen hadn't wasted any time; he had caught up and was only a few meters away. Her muscles protested as she wearily started running again; the skin on her spine crawled as she sensed the closing proximity of the assassin's blades.

Kroenen glanced down as he passed the spot where Erica's blood lay in crimson streaks that shone wetly in the moonlight. The memory of stabbing her in the shoulder sixty years ago sprang into his mind: her blood all over his blades, his hands, his clothes. He came to one conclusion: it hadn't been enough. He wanted _more._ More of that _delicious _scarlet colored liquid, every beautiful drop falling in agonizing payment for her treachery.

Besides, he _loved_ the color.

Fortunately he knew he was about to see a lot if it: Erica wasn't going _anywhere_.

Erica was exhausted; her lungs felt like she was breathing razor blades instead of cold autumn air. She spotted a light ahead of her where the alley narrowed and curved right. Her heart leapt with the hope that the light was coming from the street, that she could run out there and lose herself among the crowds and traffic where Kroenen wouldn't follow. She rounded the turn. And slid to a stop.

"Mein Gott," she murmured, barely able to speak through her gasping. _I am going to die._

The light was only moonlight. The solid, blank walls of buildings rose up before her on three sides. There were no windows, no doors to force open; no rainspout to climb up. It was a dead end. There was nowhere left to go. And her fate was somewhere behind her, closing in on her.

Erica wanted to cry and scream with rage at the same time. There was no way, after all she had been through, that it was going to end like this. What would the BPRD think when they found what was left of her? What would the Professor think? Or Hellboy, who had grown up knowing her? Or Abe? _Abe,_ she thought, _God, Abe!_

She couldn't fight anymore; she was exhausted. Her chest heaved with exertion as she turned around to face the only exit and entry to the dead end; she wanted to be able to see Kroenen when he rounded the corner. _He's going to kill me_, she thought, _he's going to kill me. Oh, God…_

Kroenen appeared, the shadows melting from his body. His mask and the intricate designs on his chest plate glimmered eerily in the moonlight. Upon seeing her, he slowed to a walk, and a slow one, like a spider that knew its prey was trapped securely in its web—he knew he could take his time to deliver the killing blow. The ticking of his clockwork heart was unnaturally loud in the tense silence of the alley.

"Running wasn't one of your better ideas," Kroenen said quietly. "Why waste all that energy running away when you knew I would catch you and leave your mangled body out for the ravens?" His voice was soft and pleasant, but vehement. It was a sharp contrast with his words, and all the more frightening because of it.

"I had to try something."

Kroenen approached her leisurely, and Erica backed away from him; he watched her patiently until her back was almost against the opposite wall. She stood there looking at him, unable to go any further. She was still trying to recover from running; the hot air she breathed out turned into little puffs of white fog that dissipated into the night.

"I thought you were going to escape me a few times. A turn here, a turn there, and you'd be gone. But no. And I'm so glad you didn't; you've escaped me for far too long," he said. He laughed softly at the fear on her face. "No need to look so tense, Erica; you look like you're in front of a firing squad. But then, they would be faster than I intend to be with you, no?" He beckoned. "Come here."

Erica, of course, didn't move.

Kroenen chuckled. "I didn't expect you to obey. You've always been too proud to submit. So _I _will come to _you._"

XXXXX

_A Bar in New York_

The bar was packed with people celebrating Halloween. Some were celebrating a little _too_ much: a few drunks were getting rowdy over at one of the tables; they had made a makeshift 'tail' out of a paper straw wrapper and safety pin and were attempting to pin it onto someone dressed like a donkey. Halloween themed music was blasting over the speaker system, and the DJ had turned on some brightly colored lights that whirled and threw their beams crazily around the room.

A slender, young Native American sat at the bar, compulsively shuffling a worn deck of playing cards and idly watching the TV on the wall across from him. His long brown-black hair was tied back in a loose ponytail to show off the two gold hoops he had in one ear. On the back of his neck, above the collar of his black leather jacket, was the beginning of a black tattoo of a slender vine of thorns; beneath his jacket it wandered across his shoulders and spiraled down his arms. The right side of the man's face was slack; he'd lost his muscular control in it years ago due to a stroke. Of course, his injury in that fight two years ago with Ezekiel hadn't helped. But Ezekiel was dead now. The man grinned.

A drunken man dressed as a cowboy plunked himself down on the barstool beside the Native American. "So, what're you?" the cowboy asked, staring pointedly at the slack side of the Native American's face. "I mean, dressed as?"

"Myself," he snapped. Then, feeling hurt, added sarcastically, "Isn't my face nice? Don't need a mask at all, do I, someone as handsome as me?"

"And humble too," the man muttered. Obviously the man was too drunk to realize what had been meant, or that he was being rude. The Native American rolled his eyes.

Suddenly the door was pushed open by a very large black dog. No one moved to stop it, though there was general laughter as people spotted it. The dog made straight for the Native American at the bar and put its big front paws on his knees. The dog's pink tongue hung out as it panted; its bright blue eyes were oddly human.

"Cute dog," the cowboy remarked, "Is he yours?"

"I'm a she, thank you. And I'm _not_ a dog," the large black 'dog' said; the drunk cowboy stared open mouthed. The young werewolf turned her attention back to the Native American, who continued idly shuffling his deck of cards. "Luke, that woman that helped us a few day ago—Erica—she ran into me in an alley. She's in trouble. Some guy dressed like a ninja is trying to kill her."

"Cutie's in trouble? I knew it. I warned her before I left last time." Luke shook his head and the hoops in his ears jangled. He neatened up his cards and tapped them sharply on the counter to get them even before he put them in a pocket of his jacket. The black werewolf got down on all fours again as Luke spun around on the bar stool to face the two tables behind him.

"Hey!" Luke yelled above the music, "Hey! Richard and Agatha's group! Yes, you! Cutie's gotten herself in trouble again."

Most of the people in the bar looked at Luke as if he'd had too much to drink. But the people at the two tables—all of them werewolves in human form—tossed back the rest of their drinks and stood up. Their eyes glinted and their fingers curled in anticipation of their transformation.

"Come on," Luke said; he opened the door and stepped out into the night. The others, werewolves too young to enter the bar, were lounging on a bench; it was in shadow, so they all looked human enough, though they could have remained werewolves if they'd chosen. But all of that would change when they stepped into the moonlight, regardless of the phase of the moon. Luke beckoned to them, grinning. "Let's go sink our teeth into some assassin!"

Author's Notes: Cliffhanger! What will happen to Erica? Will Luke and the other werewolves get there in time? What will Abe do? And where's Hellboy? All this and more to be answered in chapter 14, along with a surprise! Also, for anyone wondering, or who thought it seemed familiar, Kroenen's 'obscene lullaby' was actually a well known child's prayer before I twisted it. Please review!


	14. Bittersweet Memories

**Chapter 14: Bittersweet Memories**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Luke, the other werewolves, Brittany, and the plot that isn't from the movie belong to me.

Author's Notes: A huge thank you to those who reviewed! I'll cut this short so you can get to reading, since I've been holding you all in suspense for two months! In this chapter Kroenen's confrontation with Erica continues, with a plot twist and a big surprise! As always here are the German to English translations: 'Ja' is yes, and 'Mein Gott' is My God. Enjoy the chapter!

**Psycho Llama:** Hehe! That belt buckle thing was in there for a reason! (wink wink) just me working in subtle hints to possibly play upon later…Oh dear, I can only imagine what you would have had Erica do to surprise Kroenen!

**musicamode:** Huge fight scene continued here, of course, and with lots more of the werewolves!

**Elena Unduli:** Eeek! If you thought that last chapter was late, I shall duck the pens bound to be chucked in my direction for the lateness of this one!

**DarkCloudRider:** Oh, don't worry, Abe will be angry. And he and Kroenen are going to have, shall we say,_ issues_, in the near future. And I suppose you might be able to kill Kroenen by severing his brainstem, but as you have seen from their past fights, Erica can't get close enough to do any significant damage!

**Syraka:**A new reviewer! Yay! AndI agree! And she will…sort of.

**amyltrer:** Yes, can you imagine: Kroenen-Now that I've scared you half to death and tried to kill you, lets go out for dinner! Erica-Eep!

**dontRememberMyName:** Another new reviewer! Woohoo! Thanks, I really enjoy writing Kroenen's perspective; I like showing that he's a complex person, and not just and insane murderer.

"For here the lover and killer are mingled, Who had one body and one heart. And death who had the soldier singled, Has done the lover mortal hurt."—Keith Douglas

"From the deepest desires often come the deadliest hate."—Socrates

"When digging a ditch for your enemy, dig two."—American Proverb

_An Alley in New York_

Erica's eyes locked on Kroenen as he stalked towards her; the twin blades in his hands shone brightly in the moonlight, eager for her blood.

_Oh God oh God oh _GOD, Erica thought, squeezing her eyes shut as she pressed her back against the cold, concrete wall behind her. A tear trickled from the corner of her eyelids. _I don't want to die like this…_ Suddenly, she paused; her thought was filling her with an overwhelming emotion that she could not name, but it was certainly _not_ despair. _I don't want to die like this,_ she thought again, seizing that one, desperate thought, that determination to live at all costs. One thought, one purpose entered her mind, spurring her to action: _I am_ NOT _going to die like this!_

Her eyes flew open. They locked on Kroenen. And then something inside her _snapped._ A tide of murderous rage violently spewed out and swept her up.

The next thing she knew she was hurling herself at Kroenen, bridging the few remaining yards between them with her blades whirling towards his head.

Kroenen neatly sidestepped Erica's attack and kicked her feet out from under her; she crashed to the ground face-first. He looked down at her as she moaned and hissed and rolled over; he was surprised she still had enough energy to attack him. But then again, the fear of death made people do strange things, and rage often lent a few moments of extra energy. In any case he wasn't worried: on a good day Erica could injure him, but at the moment she was too tired to do any real damage. He decided he would torment her until she was too weak to move; it would be like harassing a chained dog. _Once she's exhausted I'll cut off her hand and then leave,_ he thought; his skeletal grin widened.

He watched as Erica tried to push herself to her feet, and just as she started to get up, he kicked her in the ribs. _HARD._ She fell to the ground with a cry; Kroenen strode over to her and kicked her again, and _again_, his boot impacting her ribs each time with a dull thud. Erica shrieked and curled up on the ground; Kroenen stood over her, savoring her bloodcurdling scream, the sweet sound of revenge. And he had barely started.

He walked around her prone form, watching and waiting. Her breathing had changed to a hoarse gasp; he had knocked the air out of her. How _lovely._ He reached down and grabbed her face and forced her to look up at him, and raised his other hand to hit her—he stopped and stared, transfixed by her expression.

Erica was _enraged._ Her face was contorted by a snarl and murder flashed in her grey eyes. She didn't just want to hurt him, she wanted to _kill_ him, as impossible as it might be. All reason, all sanity, had vanished from her face. Kroenen stared, entranced. He had seen that expression many times in the past.

On his Angel. As she _had_ been. His _Angel._

Erica lunged at him and her blade sank into his arm. Kroenen pulled away; long dead emotions and memories stirred inside him, broke their restraints, and surged through him, and suddenly he wasn't sure how he wanted to respond. He backed away but she came at him, and, desperate for time to deal with his rampant emotions and memories, Kroenen abruptly sheathed his baton swords, sidestepped, and seized her arms as she passed him. Quickly, he twisted one of her arms up behind her back and slammed her front into the nearest wall; he leaned all his weight against her, securely pinning her there.

Erica's body was crushed against the cold, rough brick by Kroenen's weight. Blinded by anger she thrashed and struggled and bucked, trying to get free—and then Kroenen twisted her arm. Erica hissed in pain and instinctively tried to pull away—he twisted again. Erica felt her muscles and ligaments straining; they were on the verge of ripping.

"Drop your blades," the assassin demanded.

Erica snarled defiantly in response and then had to stifle a scream as he, with the precision of a doctor, twisted her arm until it was on the threshold of being wrenched from its socket.

"Drop. Your. Swords," he growled in her ear. This time she couldn't help but obey—the blades were already slipping from her pain-weakened fingers. Her baton swords clanged against the pavement as they landed.

Kroenen released his grip and grabbed her by the shoulders and roughly spun her around. He stared down at her face; angry, predatory eyes the color of the craters on the moon stared back at him.

He stared at her. Simply stared. Something akin to panic bubbled up inside him. _Am I doing the right thing?_ he wondered. Of course he was. Or was he? Was this, Erica's pain, her suffering, and eventually her death, _really_ what he wanted to happen to his Angel? His closest friend? His student? He had sworn he would never hurt her. And though she had betrayed him, here she was; she wasn't gone as he had thought, wasn't the alien being he had expected, wasn't changed beyond recognition or empathy. Perhaps she still cared about—

_NO!_ Kroenen thought angrily, _I will NOT let this happen AGAIN! _But his determination faded as fast as it had appeared and was replaced by more doubts that spawned rage—at himself. Why was this happening again? He had to do something; he had to—no, _wanted to_—complete what he had set out to do, but the anger and hate that had driven him for the past sixty years was fading fast. He _needed _that anger, he clung to it; he desperately needed it back in full force so he could follow through with what he had set out to do. Kroenen dug his fingers into Erica's shoulders and he slammed her back against the wall as hard as he could.

"Tell me you hate me!" he yelled.

Kroenen's words cut through Erica's red fog of bloodlust like a cold shard of ice. It jarred her so much that her reasoning her mind surfaced again and was immediately confronted with the alien—yet disturbingly familiar—murderous rage coursing through her veins; an animal presence sharing her skin with her. _What the HELL am I DOING?!_ she wondered frantically.

"Tell me you hate me! _Say it!_" he demanded; he shook her so hard that her head smacked into the wall behind her.

Erica, her head now throbbing with pain, stared up at Kroenen in astonishment_. Is he_ insane_? What does he mean? Why would he say something like that?_ Then she knew. The other presence in her; her uncontrolled rage—she was acting like she had during WWII. No restraint. No fear. No mercy. Kroenen had pushed her to the point that, for her to survive, her past self had broken free. And to judge by how Kroenen was acting, she was not the only one who had noticed.

"SAY it!" Kroenen's harsh voice was hoarse with anger and something else that vaguely resembled pleading.

Erica stared at him, shocked by a sudden thought: she was afraid of him—but did she _truly_ hate him? He had committed horrible acts, had tried to kill her, and she despised those acts, but did she despise _him?_ How could she, when his actions against her were partially her own fault?

"Erica—_Angel_—_SAY IT! TELL ME YOU HATE ME!"_

Kroenen waited, breathing hard, hoping—no, _knowing_—she would curse at him, denounce him, threaten him, swear terrible oaths. Erica's blood covered lips parted as she started to speak.

"But, I—I _don't _hate you."

Kroenen felt something shatter explosively inside him—like a glass globe bursting at a sudden change in temperature. Disbelief and shock shot through him as he stared at her.

"_What…did…you…say?_" he whispered; his voice trembled. His mask was now so close to her face that her eyelashes were nearly brushing against the smooth, dark glass that hid his eyes.

"I don't hate you," she murmured. Her voice was barely audible.

The clockwork assassin knew she was telling the truth; there was no lie in the grey eyes he could read so well. _She doesn't hate me, _he thought, staring at her. _She _doesn't _hate me!_ Kroenen's shock abruptly transformed into anger—at himself—at Erica—How _dare_ she not hate him! How _DARE_ she!

Kroenen backhanded her across the face so hard that the sound of his leather glove hitting her cheek made a sharp crack. Erica only stared up at him, her grey eyes wide. Her lack of response infuriated him even more; without knowing what he was doing or why, he hit her again and hurled her away from him; he suddenly couldn't bear to touch her. Erica reeled backwards, her arms out flung as she tried to regain her balance.

Erica's head spun as bright stars exploded in front of her eyes and her ears rang; she shakily put a hand up to her face and felt warm, slippery blood trickling down from her nose and over her lips.

"_DAMN_ _YOU!_" Kroenen yelled.

Confused by his reaction, Erica blinked dizzily at him, which only seemed to feed his anger; Kroenen raised his hand again and Erica flinched, expecting another blow—instead his hands closed around her throat and tightened mercilessly, his fingers as unyielding as metal as they pressed into her skin. The assassin picked her up with unnerving ease and pushed her against the wall—and held her there. Erica tore at his iron fingers, trying desperately to pry them from her throat as she choked and her feet dangled above the ground like those of a marionette left hanging on a peg.

"Karl…!" she gasped.

"_Hold your tongue or I'll cut it__ OUT!_"

Erica kicked at him and felt her foot smash into his ribs—

"_AAARRROOOooooooooooh!_" A piercing, unearthly howl shattered the night.

Erica and Kroenen froze. Another howl went up into the air, followed a moment later by another, and another, and another, the baying drawing nearer by the moment. _Werewolves_, Erica thought. And they were close. _Very_ close. Abruptly several werewolves appeared on the roofs surrounding the dead end; their teeth glittered and their eyes gleamed in the moonlight. A few began climbing down the walls of the buildings to make room for the others quickly arriving behind them.

"Hey, cutie!" Erica's eyes darted upwards at the familiar voice. _Luke_, her air starved brain thought as she spotted the scruffy werewolf with the half-slack face above her on the roof. He winked at her and grinned, displaying a mouth full of long, sharp teeth.

"The cavalry's here, girl!" Luke yelled down, grinning.

Kroenen glanced quickly up at the werewolves, and then the dark voids that covered his eyes focused on Erica again. His fingers tightened around her throat, crushing her windpipe, and tears of pain ran from the corners of her eyes.

"_YOU_ _HELLSPAWN!_" Kroenen snarled at her.

"_Get him!_" Luke yelled.

The werewolves leapt from the rooftops and landed in a scattering of dirt and loose stones from the pavement. Kroenen hesitated, looking from Erica to the oncoming werewolves and back again—and then he dropped her. Before she hit the ground he was climbing up the sheer wall; the werewolves snapped and snarled at him, a few even started up after him. But the clockwork assassin had reached the roof. He paused for a moment, silhouetted against the moon, and looked down at them, as if committing the werewolves' snarling faces to memory so he could slaughter them in revenge later.

"I left a little gift for you at the library, Erica," Kroenen hissed, "Watch for me in your dreams; I'll be in your _head_. Sleep with one eye open."

Then he was gone.

"Yeah! We kick _butt!_" a werewolf yelled, breaking the tense silence. He stood up on his hind legs and performed an impromptu victory dance.

As the werewolves laughed and slapped each others' paws in celebration, Erica knelt on the ground on all fours, taking in big, dizzying gulps of the cold, _delicious_ air. A shiver danced its way down her spine as Kroenen's foreboding parting words repeated themselves over and over her head, like a record that had gotten stuck.

"Baby, I think someone's got it in for you," Luke said. Erica looked up and met Luke's honey brown eyes and wolfish muzzle as he peered down into her face.

"No, really?" Erica said sarcastically.

Luke only grinned. "Obviously you're okay, then."

Erica spit out the blood in her mouth and licked cautiously at her split lip. "I'll live," she said, and cracked a smile at him through the dried blood on her face. Then she paused. "I'm alive," she said, barely able to believe it.

"Glad to hear it," Luke grinned, showing off his sharp canine teeth. "Oh, by the way, saying _'I told you so'_ doesn't quite cover this."

"Your warning was more than a little vague."

Luke shrugged. "Well, the paranormal underground information—more like _rumor_—network isn't very specific about these things…"

He held out a paw to Erica; she gripped it and, with lots of wincing and a great deal of effort, managed to haul herself to her feet.

"Thanks," she said. He nodded and handed her baton swords to her; she slid them into the sheaths on her legs.

"We'll help you get wherever you're going," Luke said. "Don't want him following you again." He nodded meaningfully in the direction of the rooftops.

Erica nodded, then leaned against the wall for support and rubbed at her bruised throat; she could feel Luke's eyes studying her. She knew she was a mess—her entire body felt like one big ache. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the cool brick; all she wanted to do was to go home, take some aspirin, and go to _sleep_.

"So…where to?" asked a small black werewolf. Erica raised her head and blinked as she recognized the werewolf as the large 'dog' she had run into in the alley.

"Um…the Machen Library," Erica answered wearily. She felt very far away and hoped the feeling wasn't due to blood loss from internal bleeding; Kroenen had kicked her ribs pretty hard. "I hope you know how to get there—I'm lost."

"No problem. Are you meeting anyone there?"

"Ja. Some of the agents, Hellboy, Abe—" she stopped as reality woke her up like a bucket of ice water thrown over her head; her body stiffened. "_Mein Gott!_ Abe will know I'm missing! He's probably freaking out! And I can't tell him I'm safe: Kroenen took my earphone!"

"Then we'd better be fast. Can you walk?" Luke asked.

"Uh…sure," Erica said, feeling unsure. She pushed away from the wall and took a few unsteady steps. "As long as it isn't far."

"I could always carry you," Luke said, winking. The other werewolves chuckled.

Erica was too tired to be irritated or find any humor in the situation, so she just shook her head and started walking. A moment later she was surrounded by a surge of furry bodies as her escort of werewolves led the way, some on two legs and some on four. When they left the dead end and stepped into the dark alley, they left the moonlight behind, and Erica was briefly startled as the werewolves shifted shape; she was suddenly surrounded by a ragtag group of humans of all ages and races. Luke adjusted his leather jacket and she caught a glimpse of the black thorn tattoos on his shoulders and arms.

"I didn't know you were Native American," she remarked.

He grinned; his smile was just as maniacal as it was in his werewolf form. "And after the incident with you fighting Ezekiel and crew, I didn't expect _you'd_ have trouble fighting anything."

Erica looked away from his intense gaze and reflexively scanned the rooftops for Kroenen's dark form. "It's a long story. He's an old friend; I betrayed him decades ago."

Luke's brow furrowed at 'decades', but to Erica's relief, he didn't ask her to explain.

"A ghost from your past back to haunt you?" Luke asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"As you saw, he's more interested in bloodshed than in haunting," she said darkly.

Luke grimaced. "Why did you betray him?"

Erica put a hand to her throbbing head and sighed; she was too tired to deal with this. "I don't have time to explain. And it's not a particularly pleasant memory—"

She paused mid-sentence as her eyes fell on the group of younger werewolves that was leading the way. One of them was a young girl with chin length blond hair; she appeared to be in her early teens, probably in her last year of middle school. Erica stared at the back of the girl's head; there was something instinctively familiar about the girl, the way she walked, that laugh…It was impossible, but Erica had a feeling she knew the girl from somewhere, that the girl was extremely important to her in some way. If only she could see the girl's face—!

"Luke," she said, whispering without knowing why, "That blond girl up there, what's her name?"

Luke glanced at the girl idly. "Brittany. Why?"

Erica's stomach clenched and her heart pounded as her throat constricted, holding back a sob. She froze in place and stared ahead at the girl, hardly believing that what she was seeing was real. _My sister! She's my _sister_! My little _SISTER Erica forgot her own injuries and pain as tears of joy welled up in her eyes; she ran towards Brittany and threw her arms around her, hugging her tightly.

"What the _hell?!_" Brittany yelped; she struggled and pulled away and turned around to glare at Erica. Erica didn't care; she stood smiling through the tears running down her cheeks, just looking at her little sister.

"What's wrong with you?" Brittany demanded.

"_Brittany_," Erica said, and tried to hug her again, but Brittany backed away. "I thought I'd _never_ see you again!"

"What? How do you know my name?" Brittany's brow furrowed and she frowned.

"I'm your _sister!_"

Brittany looked at her doubtfully; a cold stab of desperation interrupted Erica's joy as she saw the suspicion in her sister's eyes. "Don't you recognize me?" Erica asked.

Brittany looked her up and down, and it suddenly dawned on Erica that recognizing her would be a difficult task: she'd been barely sixteen when Kroenen had magically dragged her into the past, and now she looked like she was twenty two. And on top of that, she was dressed head to foot in black, and her unevenly shorn hair was hanging around a face that was bruised and scarred and bloodied. She looked _nothing_ like the teenage girl that had disappeared at the train station all those years ago.

"Brittany, _please_, it's me, Erica," she pleaded, "Don't you remember? I disappeared—"

"My sister," Brittany said stiffly, "hasn't been gone long enough to look like you."

"What can I say to convince you?"

Brittany thought for a moment. "Tell me what we had for breakfast the morning you disappeared."

"We had pancakes," Erica said, smiling as she remembered, "And you told me I'd get sick if I kept eating so fast. And a few days before, the musical at my high school got cancelled because Natalie fell off the stage. You told me not to feel responsible and that I could come to your sixth grade concert instead—"

Brittany gasped. "_OH MY GOD!_ _It IS you!_" She hugged Erica and buried her face in Erica's leather trench coat. When Brittany looked up again there were tears in her eyes, and she hugged Erica tightly, as if she were afraid Erica would disappear again if she let go for a moment; Erica winced and gritted her teeth at the pressure exerted on her freshly bruised ribs.

"Where did you go?" Brittany asked. "And what the hell happened to you? You shouldn't look this much older; you've only been gone for a little over two years!"

"What happened to me? What happened to _you?_ Since when have you been a werewolf?"

Brittany grinned. "Since you disappeared. My friend, Alice, was—is—a werewolf. Her whole family is. She knew I was depressed about you disappearing—I thought you'd been kidnapped or something—anyway, she asked if I wanted to be like her so we could sneak out and have fun. I thought she was just playing around, trying to cheer me up, so I agreed, and—and she bit me. That was when I found out she was telling the truth." Brittany shrugged and smiled. "It _is_ fun, though. I wouldn't want it any other way."

Erica tore her eyes away from her sister to look at the pack of werewolves surrounding them; every single one was staring with their mouth hanging open.

"So…I guess you weren't at Richard and Agatha's house when I was there a few days ago with Abe, hmm?" Erica asked.

"No. I was late getting there—wait; _you're_ the Erica who helped Luke kill off Ezekiel and those other werewolves?!" Erica nodded and Brittany looked up at her in awe. "Since when can you do _that?!_"

"Let's just say it's a long, _long_ story," Erica said, smiling. Despite her wounds a warm, happy, glow-like feeling was settling over her. She knew she needed to get back to Professor Broom and the others, though. "I'll tell you while we walk to the Machen Library, how about that?"

Brittany nodded and they started walking, their arms around each other's shoulders. The other werewolves didn't move and continued to stare at the sisters.

"What?" Brittany demanded. "Come on!" Then to Erica, "So, does this story include why that masked guy was trying to kill you in the alley back there?"

"Ja."

"What?"

"Sorry. Force of habit. It's German for 'yes'. Now, the first thing we have to get straight is that I've _really_ been gone for sixty years…"

XXXXX

_The Rooftops of New York_

Kroenen followed Erica's escort of werewolves from a distance; he had to stay downwind and out of hearing range so the werewolves wouldn't smell Erica's blood on his clothes, or detect the ticking of his clockwork heart.

The clockwork assassin walked the length of an apartment roof, and then took a running leap onto the sloped, slate roof of a church. He easily scaled the smooth surface, then grasped a column that supported the open bell tower, and swung himself onto the peak of the roof. He grinned manically up at the crucifix affixed to the bell tower, taking pride in how his presence desecrated the building. Then he turned his gaze earthwards again and peered into the night.

There she was, Erica and the werewolves, just a few alleys over, illuminated clearly in the blue moonlight. They were headed towards the library.

Kroenen didn't know why he was following Erica, or what he hoped to gain from it. It was just something he was doing. And in his current state of confusion and anger, he really didn't want to think at all. He stared at Erica's distant figure, remembering her haunting eyes—_those eyes!_—he had seen moments ago in the alley before the werewolves—_damn _them—had interrupted.

_Angel…_he thought, watching her. The sentimental nickname stirred the seething nest of angry snakes that seemed to have settled around his clockwork heart; they constricted, and a spark of fury exploded inside him.

"_Stupid!_" he snarled quietly, cursing himself. "_Coward!_ _Weak!_ Emotions make you _weak!_" He had trusted her, befriended her, allowed himself to become emotionally attached to her, and what had it gotten him? Betrayal, and this—this _damned_ inability to dispense justice, to take revenge!

And why? Why couldn't he harm her when she deserved it? Why this—this _emotion_ that stopped him?

_You already know why, _whispered a voice in the back of his head, _The question is, will you face it?_

Kroenen uneasily contemplated this, then turned his gaze back to Erica. He would follow her, and after that…he didn't know.

XXXXX

_Outside the Machen Library_

_New York_

"Hey, time travel? Visions? Nazis? Fighting monsters? Just look at me; I'm a _werewolf._ I _know_ weird," Brittany said, "Of course I believe you. I'm sure weirder things than that have happened to people."

"They have," Erica agreed, "I see weird stuff every day at the BPRD."

The sound of voices and sirens ahead announced the end of the alley and their arrival at the front of the Machen Library. Erica peered out of the end of the alley; there were still swarms of curious people and reporters being held back by mounted police. A helicopter hovered overhead, raking the ground with spotlights.

Erica turned to Luke and the other werewolves, meeting everyone's eyes in turn. "Thank you all for your help; you saved my life tonight." She looked back at the library. "I have to go. You all should probably stay here; Tom Manning, the Head of Special Operations, has some insane idea that you all are working for Rasputin and need to be interrogated. _And_ all the agents will be on edge after the Hell Hound thing; if they saw you in the moonlight…things would get bad, fast."

Luke nodded; his gold earrings jangled together. He gestured at the werewolves; they transformed smoothly to their werewolf forms and began slinking away into the night.

"See you," Luke said, and winked at Erica. A moment later he was gone, leaving Erica alone with Brittany.

"So…this is it, isn't it?" Brittany said. Tears sparkled in her eyes, and she looked at the ground. "When will I see you again?"

"I'll make arrangements at the BPRD so you can come and visit me. Or I could come home." Erica's voice caught on her last word; she felt her throat tighten as tears threatened to spill from her eyes. Home: she had been dreaming of it forever; she had been wishing, though she knew there was almost no hope, that she could see her parents and her sister again.

Brittany shook her head. "No. You can't. Mom and Dad don't know about me. And I don't think they'd believe it even if I transformed right in front of them. They're normal people, stuck in their ways. They won't believe you either. It'd be heartbreaking to see them turn you away…" Brittany stopped and sniffled softly. "You can't come home, because it _isn't_ _home _anymore. Your home is with your friends: Hellboy, Abe, Liz, the Professor. Somewhere you'll be accepted for who you are. The way Richard and Agatha accept _me._ I still love Mom and Dad, but Agatha and Richard are my parents more than Mom and Dad will ever be. And I'm happy that way. And I'm even happier now that I know you're safe."

Erica nodded slowly, then reached into her pocket and took out the BPRD's business card; she gave it to Brittany.

"Squeaky Clean Waste Management Services?"

"It's an alias. Call me?"

"Okay. If you call me, our home number's still the same. So is my email address."

They hugged one last time. "Brittany, don't be worried if you don't hear from me for a few days…"

"Yeah, I know. You're up against something big. You can do it. You've survived time travel, Nazis, assassins, monsters….you can do this."

Erica smiled as Brittany pulled away and backed away down the alley, transforming into a blond-furred werewolf as she went; she looked like a really big golden retriever with human eyes.

"Goodbye," Brittany said. She waved, and then turned and loped off into the night, her tail wagging behind her.

"Goodbye," Erica whispered. And then, sniffling back her tears, she turned and walked towards the Machen library.

XXXXX

_The Machen Library_

_New York_

Professor Broom stared off into space, running his hand over his rosary beads as his lips moved in a silent prayer. A little distance away, Abe was crouched on the floor, slowly turning over the bright slivers of glass on the stone tiles in an attempt to look like he was doing something helpful. But there was nothing they could do for Erica now but wait. Broom's heart went out to the fish man and he gently put a hand on Abe's slumped shoulders—they could touch, now that Abe knew about the cancer that was slowly consuming Broom's body.

"She'll be all right," Broom said assuringly. "I saw her fight Kroenen; she can hold her own."

Abe nodded listlessly and returned his gaze to the floor. He couldn't help but stare at the black rose and the baton sword lying there, side by side; couldn't help but imagine the assassin stabbing Erica with that blade—Abe abruptly raised his head and cocked it to one side, psychically sensing someone's approach at the same time that he heard the familiar click of jackboots striking the museum's stone floor. His heart leaped.

"Erica," he murmured; he moved towards the doors.

The agents snapping photographs of the room moved aside as he wove between them, and then his view of the figure in the doorway was clear.

"Erica!"

"Abe!"

And then Erica was hugging him tightly, despite the respirator and equipment around his neck. She buried her face in his chest, and Abe wrapped his arms around her—

"_Ow!_" Erica cried, pulling away.

"What?"

"Not your fault," she gasped, "My ribs—"

Concerned, Abe ran his hand over her side. "They're only bruised."

"Good. I was worried…" she trailed off and looked up at him.

Abe felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he looked down at her; she was a _wreck_. She was covered in smears of dirt and blood, and her hair—now several inches shorter than it should have been—hung in uneven strands around her face. Anger at the clockwork assassin flared up inside Abe as his gaze swept over Erica's bloody lips, the red marks on her cheeks from several direct punches to her face, and the ring of darkening bruises around her throat. A sudden desire to snap Kroenen's neck surfaced in Abe's mind as he assessed the damage to Erica's throat.

"Erica, I'm so s—

"Don't apologize," she interrupted, stopping him with a smile. She wiped at the blood on her lips with the back of her hand, then licked her lips and grimaced before she continued. "There was nothing you could do. Don't feel bad. I'm _okay_; considering I was expecting Kroenen to kill me, I'm happy to escape with a few bruises and scrapes."

"Hey, you're back too?"

They turned to see a very bedraggled Agent Myers standing in the museum's entrance.

"Oh my God," Myers said, staring at Erica. "You look like hell. What happened to you?"

"In layman's terms I just got my ass kicked by Kroenen," Erica said dryly. She tried in vain to push the short, uneven strands of hair out of her face.

"Did Kroenen ever actually manage to miss you?" Myers asked, still staring at her. He was clearly having second thoughts about his new job.

"Ja," Erica said, and looked past Myers. "Where's HB?"

Myers dropped his gaze and studied the floor, clearly embarrassed. "He ran off," the agent muttered.

"And we will be picking him up in a few moments," Professor Broom said, leaning heavily on his cane as he limped over. "Erica," he said, and smiled warmly, "You're back."

"And in one piece," she said, somehow managing a grin.

"And Kroenen?" the Professor asked.

"Gone. Luke and the other werewolves ran him off. They escorted me back."

Erica leaned against Abe, who still had his arms wrapped around her. It was so comforting to be back with him, to be in the artificial light of the museum, to feel safe. She closed her eyes; she was _so tired…_

"Erica, you and Abe will go back to the BPRD in the garbage truck," Professor Broom said, "Agent Myers and Agent Clay will accompany me to pick up my son. But before you leave, if you feel up to it, there's something here I'd like you to look at; I think it was left here for you…"

Erica's eyes snapped open. "Kroenen's gift," she murmured. Broom looked at her quizzically. "Before Kroenen vanished he told me he left something here for me, a 'gift'. Which probably means it's something dangerous and man-eating."

"Not quite," Broom said, and gestured with his cane at something on the floor inside the room.

Erica's eyes locked on the thing and she slipped out of Abe's embrace and over to the dark objects nestled among the glittering glass shards.

Outside the Machen Library, Kroenen stealthily climbed the last few feet of the Library's brick wall and grabbed the shallow lip of the windowsill, then cautiously peered over it into the brightly lit room where, barely an hour ago, he had slaughtered the library guards. He was unsurprised to find the room full of men painstakingly recording the scene as if it were an ordinary crime investigation. Kroenen's eyes flicked over the room, instantly picking out his target. _Erica,_ he thought. She was standing over the objects he had left for her. Beside her was some sort of half man, half fish creature with a water filled collar around his neck; Kroenen studied the being with interest, wishing he had the opportunity to dissect the fish man. But perhaps another time.

"His baton sword," Erica said; her voice was muffled slightly through the glass. "He must have left it on purpose; he doesn't just leave his blades lying around. He doesn't like to leave evidence."

"Scare tactics?" Suggested an old man leaning on a cane. Despite the man's advanced age, and that the man had been soaking wet and bleeding the last time they had met, Kroenen recognized him: _Professor Bruttenholm. I was going to kill you. How fortunate for you that Erica intervened._

Erica shrugged. "Probably," she agreed. From his vantage point, Kroenen's detail obsessed eyes spotted the bruises and blood on her face, and instead of triumph, felt a nagging sense of regret that irked him greatly.

Inside the library, Erica gazed down at the single black rose that lay beside the baton sword; she shuddered as a cold, unsettling sensation shot down her spine. Memories—all bittersweet and now reeking of poison—flooded her mind. She trembled as she picked up the rose and turned it over in her hands.

"Does it mean anything to you?" Abe asked quietly.

"He used to give these to me, before I—But I don't know why he would leave one _now._"

"According to Victorian tradition, a black rose symbolizes death," said Professor Broom.

Erica nodded. "Ja, I know. He gave them to me as a sort of sick mockery; an inside joke. I was his Angel, _Death's_ Angel. It was a gesture of friendship, and I used to like the roses…but now…" she shuddered and stared out the window into the blackness of the night, running her fingers over the red silk ribbon bow around the rose's stalk. Her fingertips detected a slight texture on the ribbon, and, curious, she turned it over. Her stomach clenched as she read Kroenen's spidery handwriting:

_Traitor. Your debt is due._

"Why won't he leave me _alone? Why?_" Erica murmured.

Abe's comforting arms encircled her so they were face to face. "Because he hates you."

"Does he?" Erica murmured, looking away. Kroenen had been so desperate for her to justify his actions—Why? Why had his voice trembled, and why had he pleaded with her? Erica slowly shook her head in a gesture of confusion. "He acted so strangely when I attacked him that last time—"

"He's tried to kill you at least twice," the fish man reminded her. "Whatever it seemed to be, it was a trick; he hates you. But you're safe now; I won't let anything happen to you. I love you," Abe said, and kissed her on the cheek.

Kroenen nearly fell off the wall as the fish man's words came through the window and slammed into his ears with the force of a sledgehammer, followed by the sight of the fish man _KISSING_ Erica. Kroenen's vision was obscured by a red fog of sudden rage; he started to reach for his baton swords and then cursed as his fingers slipped off the window ledge and he almost fell again. He clung to the rough brick and pulled himself back to just above eyelevel with the windowsill, staring daggers at the fish man on the other side of the glass as Erica laughed and smiled. Kroenen fervently wished his hands were free; it would be the work of a moment to gut the fish man the way his scaly relatives were eviscerated by fishermen.

Inside the Machen Library, Erica laughed and smiled at Abe; the fish man smiled back, blushing slightly. Several feet away Manning frowned disapprovingly at her and Abe, and Myers openly gaped, his mouth hanging open. Erica ignored them and raised herself up on her tiptoes to return the kiss—the room blurred and shifted sickeningly before her eyes, and she swayed as her head began to pound. Her blood seemed to be shoved aside, interrupted in its course by other blood that boiled in her veins and rushed dizzyingly through her with a rage that was completely foreign. A furious shadow forced itself over her heart, nearly choking her with its depth of hate and wrath. Erica gasped as she recognized the shadow's identity: Kroenen. His emotions were streaming through the blood bond he shared with her.

"_Erica…?_" Abe asked, staring at her with concern.

"Kroenen is _enraged,_" she said, holding her head in her hands in a futile attempt to stop her pounding headache and to block the influx of Kroenen's emotions.

Abe looked at her with unease, and then glanced around the room as if expecting to see the clockwork man crouched in some dark corner. "Because you escaped?"

"Ja. And—something else," Erica said, then muttered uneasily, "Mein Gott he's angry, Abe."

"Let's go home," Abe suggested, his brow creased with worry.

Erica nodded. "On the way I want to tell you something. You wouldn't believe who I met tonight…"

_Abe. So the fish creature has a name,_ Kroenen thought furiously as he watched Erica, the fish man, and the Professor exit the room. The assassin's hands gripped the windowsill as if he had become part of the architecture, some spying, enraged gargoyle gnashing its teeth. Kroenen suddenly and violently shoved away from the windowsill and descended the wall with the speed of an attacking panther. He stalked through the night, rage roiling within him, blind to his surroundings as he mechanically turned his feet towards his underground lair while his mind lost itself in a storm of wrath and hate-laced emotional chaos.

_ERICA…FISH _THING…_EMOTIONS_…_I_…DAMN _THEM ALL_ AND _MYSELF!_

Author's Notes: How's that for an action packed and plot twist filled chapter? Brittany is back as a werewolf, and Kroenen has a multitude of problems, to say the least. And, oh my, I think Abe may be in trouble soon, judging by Kroenen's—shall we say, _hostile_—reaction. Also, I would like to thank Psycho Clown, Aquas98, and everyone else who suggested I have Erica get back in touch with her family! And please, _please_ review! I need the encouragement, as this is my senior year in high school, and I'm graduating on June 8; finding time to write between graduation activities is a strain!


	15. An Epiphany and an Incubus

**Chapter 15: An Epiphany and an Incubus**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Luke, Brittany, and the plot that isn't from the movie belong to me.

Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I was shocked that I got so many so soon after posting the last chapter—all in all, an excellent birthday present (I turned 18 on May 21)! I am also pleased to note that chapter 14 received the most reviews of any chapter (14, oddly enough!), and that this story has now passed 100 reviews. Thank you all! And, before some of you read into my chapter title and are hoping my story rating is about to be raised to M, I'm not using 'incubus' with its conventional mythological meaning; I'm using the literary meaning: a cause of mental distress, or something that causes a lot of worry or anxiety, especially a nightmare or obsession. I picked it because it connects to several of the characters, as well as a certain event about to occur. Now, with that out of the way, prepare for Kroenen angst, some cute Erica and Abe fluffiness, lots of foreshadowing, and another revealing confrontation! Here are the German to English translations: 'Ja' is yes, and 'Nein' is no. Enjoy the chapter!

**Psycho Llama:** Just wanted to say again how much I love your story Red Herring, and I encourage everyone else to read it! And as for consistency, that's one of the reasons it takes me so long to write a chapter; with all the plot twists I have to be really careful to make sure I don't screw anything up!

**Psycho Clowns:** Yes, I brought her sister back in because, among many reasons, I thought it would be weird not to address her family; logically she should miss them.

**Sincerely in Blood:** Thank you, graduation was wonderful!

**Syraka:** Yes he is! He really is a more complex character than just a psychotic murderer.

**Cosmic Imaginer 2:** Sorry about the long wait, hope this chapter makes it worth it!

**cd2185****(Aquas98):** I think I will be pulling Erica's sister in again in the future because I want to explore her character a bit more. And thanks again for the artwork; I still have it proudly displayed on my bulletin board!

**DarkCloudRider:** Yep, Abe's certainly going to be in trouble with Kroenen.

**musicamode:** Yes, there's going to be a lot of conflict between Abe and Kroenen, especially in the subway tunnels in the next chapter or so. I also will find it hard to choose a side!

**Schemergirl:** Glad you enjoyed both chapters! And you're not the only reviewer who has compared the 'love triangle' to the Phantom of the Opera (which I happen to love!).

**Elena-Unduli:** Your birthday? Great to know you enjoyed your 'gift'! And I must thank you for inspiring the dream Erica has later on in this chapter, so thanks once again!

**whitefang4ever:** Thanks for reviewing! I'm happy to know you enjoyed!

**amyltrer:** Luckily enough, since I and others like them so much, I am trying to squeeze the werewolves into the plot more.

**wolf-in-the-blood:** You read both? WOW. And I must say that is a massive review…I also love the Kroenen and Abe webcomic; it's so good to meet fellow readers of like minds! Woot for Kroenen/Abe fans! And I'm extremely flattered that you enjoy my story so much you have software to read it to you! That is _awesome!_ Thank you so much!

**Julz:** Thank you! And yes, there aren't many stories out there about Kroenen, and very few bother to explore the complex possibilities offered by his character.

"I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity."—Edgar Allen Poe

"There is a voice inside of you that whispers all day long, 'I feel that this is right for me, I know that _this_ is wrong.' No teacher, preacher, parent, friend or wise man can decide what's right for you—just listen to the voice that speaks inside."—Shel Silverstein

"The heart has reasons which reason cannot understand."—Blaise Pascal

_Abandoned Subway Area_

_Shower Room_

_Halloween Night_

Ilsa felt Kroenen returning long before he appeared—his anger had slammed into her brain a while ago, transmitted to her through their blood bond in all its rushing, consuming storm of red. Needless to say, his anger had been a bit helpful tonight when, after the events at the Machen Library, she had been dealing with the warden of a medical supplies and prosthetics warehouse: she had barely given a second thought to the extra aggression flooding her veins, and spurred on by the thrill of it, she had violently smashed the dozing warden's ribcage and skull with her sledgehammer, then rifled through his pockets for his keys and his inventory list. Once she had located the glass eyes—blue, of course, to replace Grigory's eyes, which had been ripped out by the portal generator—she had left, her prize carefully stowed in her pocket, leaving a gory mess behind her for the New York CSI unit to deal with in the morning.

But now Ilsa stared off into space, oblivious to the cracked, dirty tiles and dim, bluish light of the underground room as she focused on Kroenen's increasing rage. _What could possibly have happened?_ she wondered. She winced and inhaled sharply as a particularly vicious bolt of Kroenen's fury exploded in her bloodstream; her tense fingers twitched and sent her long, blood-red fingernails ripping through the flimsy pages of the newspaper she had been reading. She glanced down at the torn pages, pulled her nails free, and tossed the paper aside in irritation; it fluttered to the floor awkwardly, like a butterfly with shredded wings. Ilsa flinched again as another spurt of the assassin's anger made her head start throbbing at the base of her skull, pounding in time with her pulse.

"_Damn it!_" she muttered through gritted teeth. "I'm going to _kill_ him for this!"

She rested her head on her hand, pinching the bridge of her nose between her pale fingers as her headache faded and intensified by turns. _At least I have the consolation that Erica is feeling the same pain, _she thought viciously.

That was when she heard it: the heavy, oppressive fall of jackboots drawing nearer, followed moments later by the appearance of the clockwork assassin himself. An invisible tempest, crackling ominously with energy, seemed to follow him as he stormed into the room, his jackboots striking the water-stained tiles so hard it seemed they were certain to shatter under his heel. Kroenen did not speak, he did not glance in her direction; he headed straight towards the other doorway as if she wasn't there.

Ilsa was tired of being ignored. And she was more than a little irate about the headache she had, so she overlooked the warning signs surrounding the clockwork man.

"Well?" she asked sharply, glaring at him.

Kroenen stopped but didn't turn to face her. "Well _WHAT?_" he grated out from between clenched teeth.

Ilsa, stunned by the intensity of the fury in his voice, stared at Kroenen's rigid back. She had seen Kroenen's temper tantrums before—and they were unpleasant in the extreme—but this one looked ready to out do all those before it. She hesitated to answer him, unwilling to become a target for his raging temper, but as the seconds ticked by and Kroenen's rasping breathing became harsher with irritation, she realized that keeping mute might be even worse.

Finally, she said, very quietly, "Did you torture Erica?"

Kroenen whirled around. "_TORTURE?! HER?!_" he snarled.

Ilsa flinched and recoiled from him so fast that the back of her chair dug sharply into her shoulder blades. Kroenen's mask glared frighteningly as he towered over her, and Ilsa was sure that if his mask was off, that she would see his eyes bulging so much they would be threatening to drop out of his skull.

"THAT—THAT—SHE—_DAMNED WOMAN!_" Kroenen abruptly turned on his heel; his jackboots crashed into the floor with each of his steps; he slammed the doors behind him so hard that the rotted and worm-eaten wood shuddered violently and the rusty hinges groaned. And in spite of the closed doors, Ilsa could hear Kroenen ranting and raving and cursing as he traveled deeper into the network of tunnels:

"THE DEVIL_ TAKE _HER!"

"Obviously it didn't go well," Ilsa murmured, staring at the still quivering doors.

XXXXX

_Abandoned Subway Area_

_Night_

Kroenen's screams of incoherent rage echoed back into his ears, the sounds twisted and distorted by the many passages. He let loose a stream of ancient curses and the arcane sounds bounced back as if a chorus of demons had joined in, hissing in their hellish tongue. He slammed his left fist into the stone wall of some forgotten building's foundation and received no pleasure on seeing the old stones crack and break from the impact. He turned away and violently shoved open the rusty metal doors to his lair; the metal shrieked in protest, sending rats scurrying frantically in their efforts to hide.

Inside the room the hellish glow of the furnace's raging inferno threw swirling, flickering shadows over the walls and floor. The clockwork assassin was so livid he was shaking; his thoughts boiled under his skin, leaving scars; his lingering hatreds from WWII had produced such a strong passion for revenge that it was driving him mad now that it was clashing with this new refusal to harm Erica, brought on by his memories and her assertion that _she did not hate him_. He wanted to embrace her, kill her, forgive her all at once—and he _hated_ himself for it. His hands worked uncontrollably. He wanted to _destroy_ something—no, _someone._

"_ABE_," he snarled, gnashing his teeth. "_EMBRACING_ HER! KISSING_ MY _ANGEL!"

His mechanical hand latched onto a flimsy metal railing; the rusted-through metal crumbled under his fingers and he threw it aside, imagining it was the fish creature that crashed into the wall and broke, instead of the rusted metal.

Kroenen violently paced the room, his mind a purgatory of self-loathing, a hurricane of fury thundering inside him and his toxic emotions clawing at his guts as he raged against everything that came to mind: Erica's treachery, his failure to kill her, Erica's eyes and what he had seen in them tonight, his weakness, Erica's words, himself—for not taking revenge, Erica—for making him feel like this, himself, Erica, that fish-man, Erica, and that GOD-_DAMN FISH CREATURE!_

Suddenly, Kroenen stopped walking. Just stopped. A curious stillness and calm descended over him. "Ah…" he murmured. Then, "You fool." He chuckled a little, then louder. "You fool," he repeated. "You fool!"

Kroenen had gotten beyond his rage, now. He laughed—for no reason he could comprehend—and his laughter got louder and louder until it was the very voice of insanity. In a part of his mind he knew he was hysterical, that his mind was breaking because of emotional stress, that he needed to calm down. But he didn't want to. He had _reason_ to be hysterical. _Erica, Erica, Erica. My Angel, _he thought, _my cause of suffering as much as I am._

His laughter faded away, leaving nothing but that odd calm and a silence broken only by the muted roar of the furnace flames. He saw everything now, as if it had been drawn out for him, and he faced it now with a stoicism that surprised him. The facts were these: He loved Erica. He _loved_ her. He saw it now; that was why he couldn't hurt her, why she effected him so much, why he was jealous—and yes, he even admitted that he was—of the fish creature that had so freely kissed her. Kroenen loved her. He had never allowed himself to admit it before; it would have interfered with his Great Work on Project Ragnarok, and, after that, when the portal generator was ruined and Erica had betrayed them all, he had been too blinded by rage—at Erica and himself—to see the truth. He had been _unwilling_ to see it.

A small part of him rebelled and wondered at this revelation, this sudden love and jealousy. He hated himself right now, it told him, he hated his heart—however nonexistent and clockwork it might be—for doing this to him. He hated her. He hated her more than he could hate anything. He loathed her, despised her. Yet, he loved her. How could it be true? He was a murderer, an assassin; his heart was as cold and unfeeling as the blades he wielded! But no. He knew better; he knew the truth when he saw it.

Love. It explained everything. _Everything._ The only question now was this: what on earth was he going to do?

He couldn't go through with murdering her. This knowledge broke over him as smoothly as the last, followed by another thought, and one that was far more disturbing: He was a traitor. As of that moment, he was guilty of treason; by indulging his weakness, by knowing he couldn't—WOULDN'T—sacrifice Erica, he was _disobeying Rasputin and the Ogdru Jahad_.

Imagine that. It had come to this: he, the Head of the Thule Occult Society, had just betrayed his own Society—or what was left of it. The irony. Kroenen snorted derisively. He had never had the intention of following _her_ road. If only he had killed off the last scrap of sympathy and kindness in his soul—_And while I'm on the subject, I might as well wish I'd never seen the girl, for all the good it would do me, _Kroenen thought. Then the calm settled back over him. That was it, then.

It was strange, he reflected, that he didn't feel any different—with the exception of this strange calm, of course. Was this how Erica had felt when she decided to betray the Thule Occult Society? He doubted it; he had nothing to hold him back: Rasputin had abandoned him, and Ilsa had unfortunately done much the same at her supposedly loving Master's bidding.

_But Erica—she had_ ME, Kroenen thought.

He understood now, could empathize with her, with the emotional battle she must have fought all the way to the moment the portal generator exploded, and, very probably, was fighting to this very moment. He understood now that Erica's treachery had _not _been a personal strike against him and their friendship, as he had thought; he had just been unavoidably wound up with the unfolding events. She couldn't have avoided the confrontation if she had tried. He understood now, he truly did. He knew why she had betrayed them: it just felt _right._ Just like his treachery did, now.

It was strange—all trace of his former anger and hate was gone, now that he understood.

Kroenen absentmindedly sank into a chair, then slipped his hand into the pocket of his trench coat that was draped across the desk. He found what he was looking for and leaned back in his chair, gazing at the black and white photograph he was holding. Or more specifically, gazing at Erica—Ilsa's image and his own were not what captured his attention in this moment.

Erica. Tonight had proven that his Angel of Death still existed. She had not vanished that night, running out with Erica's blood as she lay in the mud and he held her in his arms. No, she was still there! He had seen it in her eyes, on her face. It had been heartbreaking, purpose shattering to discover that his beloved Angel was _still there_, sharing body and soul with the treacherous young woman of the present. It didn't trouble him, though, now that he understood her treachery. And besides that, how could he hate her for it? He would be a hypocrite!

_I wouldn't do this for anyone but you, Angel,_ he thought as he gently ran his fingers over the photograph. _No one but you…_

What would happen to him now, he didn't know. Nor did he know what would happen to Erica. But he would _do_ something. Oh, yes _indeed_.

Kroenen laughed; it rose, high and thin, eerily rebounding off the furnace room walls. He wondered, not for the first time that night, if he was insane. But of course he was; only a madman would betray the Ogdru Jahad and expect to snatch their intended victim out from under their noses—did they even have noses? No matter. His laughter faded into a dark chuckle.

"My Angel, I had a feeling it would be you who finally drove me crazy," he said, speaking to the photograph.

The clockwork assassin carefully propped the photo up against the row of metal masks lined up on his desk, then gazed beyond it, into the dancing flames of the furnace, as he tried to decide what he should do. He knew plotting against Grigory and the Ogdru Jahad would not be easy; he had to plan carefully. If he was caught—well, Rasputin would not leave it to someone else to kill him, not after what had happened with Kroenen and Erica at Trondham Abbey. No, it would be instant death, and of the sort only Grigory could contrive for an undead man. And that would leave Erica to fall into the trap that awaited her and the BPRD in Russia. He couldn't allow that to happen.

Kroenen could feel the metaphorical gears turning in his mind as he sought out a plan of action. Unsurprisingly, several ideas came to him, and even less surprisingly, some were far less feasible than others. His idealistic plan as he first imagined it was akin to something from a fairytale: he would rescue Erica and run away with her, as far as they could get from Grigory Rasputin, leaving the more than capable BPRD to sort out the problem of Grigory unleashing Hell on Earth.

However, the assassin instantly dismissed the idea, knowing it would never work in reality. First of all, there was no way in hell Erica would let him near her, let alone rescue her in that fashion—not after what had happened tonight in the alleys. Kroenen felt a tug of guilt as he remembered what he had done to her. No, it wouldn't work; she had been afraid of him before, but now she was sure to be terrified. And secondly, even if she were to agree to being rescued, Erica always finished what she started; there was _no way_ she would abandon her friends and leave it up to them to defeat Rasputin. No, she would want to be involved; she had a personal vendetta against the mad monk for deceiving and using her.

_Perhaps simply kidnapping her would be a better option, _he thought, _I could always explain myself on the way._ But after briefly considering it, he decided he didn't relish the idea of trying to drag a struggling, _fighting_ Erica somewhere, even if it was for her own safety.

Slowly, it began to dawn on Kroenen that he would have to stay with Grigory and Ilsa through to Russia—all the while keeping his treachery a secret—in order to save Erica, who didn't trust him and who didn't know he was trying to save her, and, as a result, would probably try to decapitate him the first chance she got. Being headless was _not_ a promising state for a would-be rescuer.

If only he wasn't handicapped by her unwillingness to trust him—

No. Wait. In the alleys Erica had said, _"I don't hate you."_

_Unwilling? _he thought, cocking his head to one side. _Perhaps not entirely._

She _had_ said she didn't hate him; this in itself was an astounding revelation. Maybe there was a chance he could restore her trust, convince her that he had only good intentions. He would show her he had had a change of heart, that he understood now, that he had forgiven her. Maybe there was a chance he could regain her friendship, that they could work together, even if that meant hiding his treachery until the inevitable climax of conflict in Russia. Maybe, just maybe, he could get her back.

And he _wanted_ her back. She was his companion, his partner, his friend. His Angel of Death. She was as murderous, as deviously intelligent, and as incredibly dangerous as himself. She was his perfect ally. He wanted her back. And this want was only amplified by the shocking scene Kroenen had witnessed at the library: that nasty, impudent fish creature, dripping all over Erica, _embracing_ her and _KISSING_ her!

The act in itself was bad enough, but what was even worse, what really hurt, was that Erica had smiled at Abe in a way she had never smiled at _Kroenen_…that she had hugged that fish creature in a way she had never embraced _him_…

_The fish man will have to die for loving her,_ Kroenen decided, already heatedly contemplating how many ways he could messily do away with Abe. _There was a time I would _murder _men for simply touching her, but this...!_ _Yes, the fish man will die. I wonder if he would dry out like an amphibian if I locked him in a room somewhere, _the assassin thought, seriously entertaining the idea. _That would leave the body intact if I decided to dissect him later…_

Then his heart fell. No. Murdering Abe did not match what the assassin wanted to show Erica: that he had had a change of heart. Gutting Abe like the fish he was would only drive Erica away, make her hate him, destroying Kroenen's chances of getting her back. No, he couldn't have any of that. He would control himself, he decided, unless the fish-man interfered. And in the back of his head, a part of him was sadistically hoping that Abe would. All Kroenen needed was an excuse, _any _excuse…

With that issue taken care of, Kroenen turned to other matters. He needed to talk to Erica, test her, see if some deeply buried part of her was still receptive to their friendship. He needed to coax his Angel out into the open.

A test.

His lipless grin widened; he had the perfect idea. _It will begin tonight,_ he decided. _In her dreams._

In the meantime, however, he had more immediate concerns. Such as suturing the gashes his beloved Angel had given him in the course of their battle. He picked up a needle and thick, black thread from where they lay on his desk among the papers, gears, and other unidentifiable pieces of dismembered machinery. With effortlessness born of long experience, he threaded the needle, then unbuckled his intricate chest plate and pulled off his skintight black shirt. Immediately, a stream of white sand poured from the deep gash in his stomach, then slackened and faded to a trickle of only a few grains. Kroenen surveyed the damage with the keen eye of a skilled surgeon; the wound on his stomach was deep: red muscle could bee seen through the pale, ragged flesh. His gaze traveled to the cut on his arm, the one he had received for staring at Erica and failing to keep his eyes on her weapons; gleaming metal and white bone shone eerily through the slashed skin.

_Ah, Erica, fierce and opportunistic as always,_ he thought proudly.

The assassin set to work, his curved needle flashing in the hellish light as he made quick, tiny stitches with the ease of someone all too familiar with his task.

"_Angel…_"

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Medical Bay_

_Night_

"And then your sister left?" Abe asked.

Erica nodded. She was seated on the edge of an examination table, holding an icepack to the bump on the back of her head. She was wearing a clean black tank top and matching pajama pants; the pants were rolled up above her knees, which Abe had just finished bandaging. She felt much better, now: her crippling headache, caused by Kroenen's rage streaming through their blood bond, was gone. Apparently Kroenen had calmed down. Erica had no idea what could have calmed the assassin so suddenly, but she certainly wasn't complaining about it.

Abe reached for another pad of gauze and started gently wiping away the dried blood from the cuts on her face. A careful inspection of her wounds had revealed them to be superficial, though Abe had definitely come to the conclusion that he wouldn't want to have the clockwork assassin hunting him down for any reason.

"At least something good came out of tonight," Abe said. It was truly astounding that Erica had met up with her sister; time travel certainly had its bizarre idiosyncrasies.

The doors of the medical bay opened and Professor Broom limped into the room, leaning on his cane, followed by Myers and a blood covered and chastised looking Hellboy. Hellboy stopped just inside the doorway and looked at Erica apologetically, his red-flecked gold eyes sweeping over the blood and bruises on her face.

"God, E, I'm sorry," he muttered.

"It's okay. Kroenen would have found some way to get me when I was alone. It just happened to be tonight."

"I still shouldn't have snuck off," Hellboy said, swaying slightly. Erica noticed with some alarm that a pool of blood was forming around Hellboy's feet.

"Sit down before you fall down," Broom said, sternly but fondly.

Hellboy obediently flopped down on one of the examination tables; it groaned slightly in protest. Abe glanced at Hellboy's wounds and then back at Erica.

"I'll be fine," she said, in answer to his unspoken question. "I can finish the rest."

Abe nodded and went to tend to his friend, who was casting slightly envious glances at the fish-man and Erica.

"God, you two are lucky," Hellboy muttered. "Liz…" But he stopped short, falling silent as his father came over to stand beside him. Hellboy glanced sideways at him, trying to gauge if his father was still upset with him for sneaking off to see Liz. But Broom smiled slightly, and suddenly it was as if nothing had happened between them, as if Hellboy hadn't been grounded at all, or slipped away again tonight. Hellboy returned the smile; they had both forgiven each other for what had happened, and now seemed to have a better understanding of each other: Hellboy was going to visit Liz, no matter what, and Broom seemed to have accepted this to some degree. At any rate, there was no longer any hostility between them, for which the demon was thankful: truly, no matter how he behaved outwardly, deep in his heart he couldn't bear for his father to be disappointed with him. His thoughts were interrupted, however, by Erica.

"What happened to you?" she asked, gazing at the deep gash on his arm. Off to the side Myers was hovering uncertainly in the background, looking more than a little sickened by all the blood on Hellboy and the floor.

"Stinky left me a present," Hellboy said. Then, in explanation, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slimy thing with a big black stinger; he tossed it onto a nearby table where it flopped and jerked oddly, heading for the edge. Myers darted forward, seized a pair of forceps, and roughly grabbed the thing before it could get any further; the stinger-thing thrashed wildly in protest.

Erica grimaced and watched as Abe peered through a magnifier at Hellboy's wounded arm.

"You were burned by some organic acid," Abe said, prodding the gash with a set of medical implements.

"I'm lucky that way," Hellboy replied. Broom rolled his eyes and then watched as Abe inspected the wound. Suddenly Hellboy twitched. "Ow!"

"Sorry," Abe said.

The fish-man reached for a tray of medical implements and selected a scalpel. Erica's eyes were drawn to the sharp metal blade; instantly a wave of nausea hit her as vivid, gruesome memories of Kroenen's 'hobbies' assaulted her mind's eye, triggered by her most recent encounter with Kroenen and the medical atmosphere of the room. _Don't be so stupid, _she scolded herself. _It's just a knife, nothing else. Kroenen isn't here; I'm safe. I won't let him effect me like this. _She forced herself to open her eyes—just in time to see Abe probing the gash on Hellboy's arm with the scalpel. Erica's stomach heaved and she quickly turned her head away, a memory of her WWII years engulfing her vision…

Cut open flesh—metal—horribly white bone—blood—twisted wires—she stood in the doorway, staring openly at the scene in front of her and particularly at the unidentifiable mass of flesh fused to wires and metal that sat oozing fluids all over the top of the stainless steel operating table.

"You should put a sign on the door when you're experimenting," she said softly, nearly unable to find her voice.

Kroenen turned his head to face her. A single drop of crimson blood was slowly making its way down the side of his smooth metal mask. He held a bloodstained scalpel in one hand. "Do you need something?" he asked calmly. Erica shuddered; his serene tone was disturbing considering the gory scene.

"You told me to come and get a book you had for me," she said quickly, already backing out of the doorway and pulling the door closed, "but you're obviously busy, so I'll come back later—"

A hand closed on her wrist. It slipped at little, wet with—no, she didn't even want to think about it. She turned to look at him.

"You can stay if you want," he offered. "I could use another pair of hands. And you can see the prototype for the alteration I could make to improve your reflexes."

She gazed beyond him at the mess of flesh riddled with clockwork; she grimaced. Not only did the mess in the room make her want to throw up, but she especially felt sick at the suggestion of him doing—whatever it was he was doing to that _thing_—to her.

"There is _no way in hell_ I'm letting you do _that_ to me. I already told you no."

Kroenen watched her for a moment, silently contemplating her through the dark voids that hid his eyes. Abruptly he released her and walked over to a metal cart; he returned with a book and held it out to her. She grasped it in one hand, but he didn't let go of the book.

"You can still stay," he said.

She quickly shook her head. He sighed and released his grip on the book. Erica wasted no time in exiting the charnel house that passed for his lab; once the door was closed and she had rounded the corner of the hall, she looked down at the book she was holding. Its cover was stained with a bloody handprint from Kroenen's gloves—

"Erica?"

Erica blinked and gazed up through the haze of her fading memory at a very concerned Professor Broom. Only then did she realize that her heart was racing and her breathing was shallow and irregular.

"I'm fine…I'm fine…I just…need to get some rest," she said. Her eyes involuntarily wandered over to Hellboy's arm and she gagged as she saw Abe watching her, frozen in the act of suturing the wound closed, drawing Hellboy's red flesh back together. She knew how that felt, the stomach turning sensation of thick, black thread tugging sickeningly as it was pulled through skin—

Erica pressed her hand to her lips as she felt the tell-tale sensation of bubbles in her stomach accompanied by the bitter, hot taste of acid rising in her throat. She swallowed thickly, forcing it back down—

"Are you sure you—?" Broom asked, worry in every wrinkle on his face.

"Ja. Ja. I need…rest. That's all."

She dropped the icepack on the table and practically fled from the room.

XXXXX

_Abandoned Subway Area_

_Furnace Room_

_Night_

"Tell me what happened," Ilsa said from her place in the doorway.

Kroenen paused in his work, stopping so suddenly and with such control that his arm stopped in mid-stitch, his curved needle held in midair above the wound he was suturing. Slowly, he looked up, his mask's eye pieces glinting eerily in the flickering light cast by the furnace. When he spoke his voice was soft and even, with no trace of its former anger.

"What do you want to know?"

Ilsa was wary. She had had no idea what she would find when she entered the assassin's lair, and though Kroenen appeared to have calmed himself, she knew his anger could still be smoldering beneath his tranquil exterior. Other than his garbled words about Erica, she had no idea what had made him so infuriated. And now she wanted to know; she needed to know how it would impact their plans.

"I want to know why you came back raving mad and screaming at the top of your lungs about Erica," she said, moving a step farther into the room so she could lean against the rusting metal doors. She crossed her arms and waited for his reply.

Kroenen didn't speak immediately; he turned his head away and resumed stitching up the wound on his arm. Ilsa idly watched him in a distant macabre fascination.

"We fought," he said at last, his voice harsh and raspy, distorted even more by his mask. "In the alleys. She was alone. She wounded me and then ran; I trapped her in a dead end. She continued to fight, but just as she became too exhausted to resist me, a pack of werewolves arrived and attacked me. I made a tactical retreat," he said bitterly.

"Werewolves?" Ilsa asked, somewhat surprised.

The clockwork man nodded. "Her allies," he said. There was a slight growl to his voice as he spoke.

The Aryan woman scowled and snorted in frustration. "_Scheiße. _She has a nasty habit of surviving."

"Ja. But not unscathed," the assassin murmured. He skillfully tied off the thick suturing thread and cut off the excess before adding, "Her face is a wreck."

Ilsa smiled, pleased by the news. "I look forward to seeing the damage. Now, these werewolves. Will they interfere?"

"Nein. They are powerless during the day, as mortal as other humans. Should they try to assist our enemies…" he trailed off, having made his point. His fingers glided over the many blades laid out on his desk.

"Good," Ilsa said curtly. A heavy silence fell between them, during which Kroenen neatened the pile of medical tools on his desk and Ilsa studied the assassin, assessing his most recent wounds. From the look of them, the fight had been fierce and violent. _Pity he was interrupted,_ she thought.

"I imagine you will be haunting her in her dreams tonight, then. Finishing what you started. With no disruptions."

"Ja. I will give her a taste of the insanity and madness she has driven me to," he said, his voice a quiet but bitter snarl dripping with venom. He drove the scalpel clenched in his fist deep into the surface of his desk and twisted, splintering a section of the wood.

Ilsa gazed at him, his cadaverous, scarred torso backed by the hellish furnace flames, thinking his words couldn't ring truer. She had doubted the assassin's sanity for decades. Of course, she wasn't exactly one to talk.

Having received the information she had come for, and now having no reason to remain in the room, Ilsa moved towards the door, stepping out into the shadows of the underground corridor. "Grigory is visiting the pyrokinetic. Remember, we have only seven more days until the eclipse. The BPRD should be back in the morning to pursue Sammael and locate the eggs. You know what to do."

"Ja," he replied. Grigory had given him his orders and told him how to infiltrate the BPRD; the wards on the building prevented Rasputin from entering, and Kroenen would have to disable them. Other than that, he knew nothing of why Grigory wanted to enter the building; the monk was still ignoring him, other then to convey what absolutely had to be known. Further instructions would be given to Kroenen once he was inside.

Fading footsteps marked Ilsa's exit. Then there was silence.

_Erica will be here, come morning,_ Kroenen thought. He would have to decide how best to turn the situation to his advantage.

He glanced over at his desk and felt a cold needle of alarm as he realized the black and white photograph was still lovingly propped up against the metal masks. He picked it up and was, for a moment, angry with himself; the act of sentimental nostalgia—of _weakness_—could have cost him everything. It was further proof that an assassin could not afford to be weak in any way, and though he knew this, he also chose to ignore it: he was long past the ability to restrain the emotions he directed towards his former student. Kroenen shook his head at himself and quickly stowed the photograph in a pouch that hung from his belt; fortunately Ilsa had _not_ seen it.

_Though she probably would not have thought anything of it if she had. Although, I have been acting oddly tonight…I will have to be more cautious in the future._

Ilsa had believed him without question. Another fortunate turn of events. Though, really, she had no reason to question him. Not yet, anyway. And it wasn't as if he had lied. He had simply left out certain details to serve his purposes.

He could still hardly believe it. Him, a traitor! _I must secretly love making trouble for myself, _he thought.

The assassin glanced down at his work; the stitches on his arm and stomach were tiny and evenly spaced. Perfect. Now he had one last wound to attend to. He reached down and removed his boot. The stab wound on his foot was surrounded by ragged skin; Erica's dagger had pierced his foot from the top clear through to the arch. Other than the skin, though, he knew there wasn't much damage: his feet were full of metal reinforcements and others of his inventions.

He threaded his curved suturing needle for the third time that night and bent to his task, his bare, pale foot propped up on his knee. Shadows from the furnace danced across his exposed skin, tingeing it orange and leaving the interior of the wound in darkness, save for the occasional glint of metal from its depths. His intricately decorated mechanical hand nimbly pulled the needle through his flesh, drawing it back together.

As soon as he was finished, he knew, he could turn his attention to the beacon he had placed in Erica's mind. He wondered what she was dreaming tonight, if she was sleeping now. Did nightmares grapple with her in her fitful sleep? Or was it dreamless, because of her exhaustion? He would know soon enough.

_Maybe if I whisper, in just the right way, you will hear it, though I am far away. When you fall asleep, listen for me, Angel. I'm thinking of you. Promise. I'll see you in your dreams…_

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Professor Broom's Study_

_Night_

Erica leaned heavily on the white marble countertop of the bathroom; it was connected to the Professor's study, which was fortunate, because the study was a lot closer than her room was to the Medical Bay. She was exhausted.

_But at least my nausea has subsided,_ she thought, lifting her head just enough so she could see her haggard reflection in the huge mirror over the sink.

She had no idea what had come over her in the Medical Bay; she wasn't one to be squeamish—her past had seen to that. It was true she hated stitches, but they had never bothered her unless she had been watching her own flesh being sutured, or—

_Kroenen._

She felt her face go very white as she realized. Yes, that made sense. She had wounded the assassin during their fight, and it was logical that he would have to repair himself. And their blood bond had been especially active this evening.

_That's what happened, _she realized. _He must have been repairing himself and his emotions and thoughts were partially projected to me._

A sound outside in the study distracted her and she glanced out into the room through the half-open bathroom door. Professor Broom, Abe, and Myers had just come in, talking. Carefully, Erica nudged the bathroom door closed except for a tiny crack. She had no desire to intrude on their private conversation any more than she wanted them to intrude on her privacy. But still, before the dark, polished wood door swung into place, she heard one word: Hellboy.

_I imagine it's because he left to see Liz tonight. Poor Myers. He must feel like he's responsible, and he's not. It's not his fault. The Professor and Abe will straighten it out for him, though. Make him feel better._

She faced the mirror again. Below the dark circles under her eyes, the 'T' shaped scar on her cheek stuck out like a brand, even among the dark, dried blood clinging to her pale skin. Erica grimaced and gently ran a finger over the cuts on her lips, then over the red, puffy mark on her cheek where Kroenen had hit her. The mark was almost a welt.

_Well, I can't do anything about that, but I can at least get the blood and dirt off my face, _she thought. She pulled her hair back and turned the water on, then cupped her hands under the cold running water and splashed it onto her face. Dried blood flaked off and fell into the white marble sink like red snow, dyeing the water with swirls of translucent red as it was swept down the drain.

The sound of the running water drowned out the indistinct buzz of voices in the study, so she didn't notice when they finally ceased.

Outside in the study, Abe, now minus his breathing apparatus, was alone; the Professor and Myers had retired for the evening. The fish-man stood at the bookstands in front of his tank, turning the pages of the books; then, finished, he shifted his gaze to the door of the small bathroom that was adjacent to the study. He had noticed the door was open when he first came in, but hadn't mentioned it; he knew Erica was far too occupied with her own thoughts to overhear the conversation. He continued gazing at the door; a thin line of bright, warm light poured out from the crack between the door and the jam and spilled across the red carpet. He heard the sink running, accompanied by the sound of splashing water, and wondered if he should knock and ask if she was alright. He was worried about her, and it certainly didn't help that he had half experienced the memory that had made her flee the Medical Bay, or that he could now hear her tumultuous thoughts.

Then he heard the water stop, and after a brief rustling, Erica emerged, her face pale and drawn, but clean. She didn't say anything, just hugged him and buried her face in his chest. Abe held her, all too aware of the stress and nervous tension that were taking their toll on her. _She needs to relax, _he thought. _She's so exhausted…_

"You can cry if you want," he murmured, stroking her hair soothingly. "If you think it would help.'

"Nein," she muttered, voice muffled; he felt her lips brush his chest as she spoke. "It wouldn't."

Abe guided her over to the sofa and they curled up together; he would have held Erica tighter, but the massive bruises on her ribs from her encounter with Kroenen made him cautious.

Kroenen. _He_ had done this to her. Abe traced the ring of darkening bruises on her neck with his eyes, living the moment in his mind of Erica's life and death struggle with the assassin as the man tried to choke the life from her. Even here, lying on a sofa, safe within the BPRD, Erica was afraid: she was mentally revisiting that dark alley, replaying the scenes in her mind. Abe saw them, heard them flitting by; emotions, snatches of conversation. One in particular stood out and Abe wondered what Erica's reaction would be if he were to ask her about it; he had no desire to cause her anguish. But as she was already thinking about it…

"Why did you tell him you didn't hate him?" Abe asked, breaking the silence.

Erica shifted uncomfortably. "Because it's true," she said quietly.

Abe blinked in surprise; both sets of translucent eyelids momentarily swept across his vision. "Don't you think you're being too forgiving? He's tried to kill you _at least_ three times!"

"I am afraid of him," she admitted. "But his actions aren't entirely his fault. I betrayed him—so he thinks—without any consideration for his feelings or our friendship. And though that isn't true, I knew it would destroy him when he discovered my treachery, and I did it anyway. He was devastated. It was his duty to kill me, and it was only one he couldn't bear to do. I destroyed him. The guilt is equal on both sides. He has a right to be furious; what would _you_ do if someone betrayed you the way I betrayed him?"

Abe had no answer to that, and he hoped he would never have cause to find one. Erica had fallen silent again, and though he held her in his arms, it was as though she were alone: her eyes were downcast, gazing at the carpet as she absentmindedly bit her lower lip, deep in thought. She was drawn in on herself, curled up both physically and mentally like a mouse trapped in a corner by a cat.

Erica's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, and she couldn't make sense of any of them. Kroenen had acted so bizarrely over the course of their battle: at first he had been threatening and murderous, but then, when he had her trapped and defenseless, the assassin had delayed killing her, had stopped and just stared at her. Oddly, he had pleaded for her to hate him, and then, enraged by her answer, attacked her again. It was as if he didn't know his own mind! Had he gone absolutely raving mad? Or, at least, more than he had been? She certainly wouldn't put it past him: dwelling obsessively on vengeance and her destruction for six decades couldn't have been beneficial to the assassin's mental health. But still, that moment when he had spoken to her, stared at her like that…

_Could it be that there is still a speck of __mercy in his clockwork heart?_ she wondered. That could explain his reaction, but, if there was, why hadn't he torn out every shred of it after Oct 9, 1944, when his mercy had cost him everything?

There were too many questions, and she had no answers. And the person that did was hiding somewhere in the darkness of the nearby city, waiting and watching…

Erica glanced up and saw Abe looking at her with his dark eyes, or, more specifically, at her hair. "I cut it—to get free," she explained. "He wouldn't let go. I thought he was going to slit my throat."

Abe couldn't help but reach out and brush away the uneven strands of hair that had fallen untidily into Erica's eyes and across her cheek. Besides being a gesture of comfort, somewhere in the back of his head Abe wondered vaguely how it was possible that the assassin could touch her for a few seconds and leave that smell behind—boot polish and leather and old blood. Abe's hand lingered on her cheek after he brushed the hair out of her face.

"I like your hair better this way," he said.

"Really?" Erica asked. She smiled slightly up at him.

"Yes. It's different. Everyone needs a little change once in a while to keep things interesting."

She laughed. "Hmmm. Here I was thinking that my hair is a wreck, and you tell me you like it. Well too bad," she said, teasingly but wearily, "I'm getting my hair trimmed so it's even again. But that will be tomorrow—well, at least sometime after the sun rises, seeing as it's past midnight."

Erica rubbed her eyes and yawned. She didn't want to move; she was very comfortable on the sofa with Abe, and had pretty much decided there was no way she was walking through the BPRD to her bedroom to spend the remainder of the night alone. She yawned again and snuggled up against Abe.

"I'm so tired…I just need to _sleep_," she murmured, her eyes drifting shut.

"Go ahead. I'll watch over you."

Erica smiled, but didn't open her eyes. The sofa cushions were so deep and soft, and she was _so tired_…

Sleep claimed her in a matter of minutes. Abe smiled drowsily down at her as he watched her; the steady rhythm of her breathing coupled with his own exhaustion was slowly lulling him to sleep. Gently, he slipped his arm out from under her and laid her down on the sofa, and then, because his gills were starting to dry out, he quietly made his way over to a door, up the stairs, and got into his tank. He peered through the water and glass at Erica's sleeping form, checking that she hadn't been awakened by his departure. She was still asleep.

_Good,_ he thought, even as his heavy eyelids began to close of their own accord. He was sure he would know immediately if anything went wrong—not that it was likely to—let alone if she awakened. So there was no harm in resting his eyes for a few minutes…

Little did he know that there was all the harm in the world.

XXXXX

Erica knew she was dreaming.

The dreamscape was very familiar: she was standing in the middle of one of the BPRD's training rooms. Three of the concrete walls were covered in huge mirrors, except for a foot at the bottom and top, which were plain grey concrete. The door was in the fourth wall, and there were racks on either side of the doorway that were full of various types of weapons. The grey concrete floor gleamed slightly under the lights set into the ceiling.

The next thing she knew, two blue webbed hands grabbed her from behind and she was flipped over Abe's shoulder; she tumbled through the air and landed on the floor in a heap, surprised but laughing. Abe grinned down at her.

"So much for always being prepared," he said.

"You were just lucky," she said, smiling back. She arched an eyebrow at him in a playful challenge. "You might knock me down, but your problem _really_ begins when I get up."

"Then it would be my pleasure to assist you to your feet," Abe replied, making a teasing half-bow. He reached down to help her up.

Erica took his hand—and tugged sharply, pulling him down beside her so his blue limbs were as awkwardly sprawled out across the floor as her own. Abe laughed; he got up so he was kneeling beside her, leaning over her, his hands braced against the floor on either side of her head. He looked down at her, smiling..._maybe just a little mischievously,_ she thought.

Abe leaned down and gently, softly kissed her cheek, then pulled back; she smiled happily up at him, and he leaned down and kissed her face again and again and again…

XXXXX

It was the work of a moment for Kroenen to concentrate on the beacon he had placed in Erica, and then invade her mind. Actually, he was surprised it was so easy: he had warned her twice, and yet, here she was, sleeping. It was so uncharacteristic of his Angel to leave herself vulnerable; he had expected to be resisted, to have to force his way in through her mental kicking and screaming. It was almost too easy. _Perhaps she found a way to turn my supposed advantage into a trap,_ he thought. He immediately dismissed it. No, through some turn or other, Erica had dropped her guard. She hadn't even noticed his presence, though he had purposefully avoided being subtle.

_I will visit her dreams, then_, he thought, _since she has practically invited me in_. With practiced ease he transferred himself from a thought-presence half concealed among Erica's unconscious activity, to a dream-form.

Instantly a room—Erica's current dreamscape—materialized around him: a concrete floor and three mirrored walls, all reflecting his image. _Where is Erica? She should be here…_He heard a giggle behind him and caught a glimpse in the mirrors of a moving form lying on the floor behind him; Kroenen turned around—and stared, frozen by shock, at Erica lying on the floor, _kissing the fish creature._ And what was worse, the blood bond the assassin shared with her was allowing Kroenen to know _exactly_ how much Erica was enjoying her dream. Kroenen felt an explosion of red hot jealousy erupt inside him; he started forward to rip Abe away from Erica, then paused, realizing his actions would be pointless: it was a dream—and an infuriating one from his perspective—but still, it was a dream. _There is no need for physical violence here,_ he thought. _I am in control, now_.

Blissfully unaware of the foreign presence in her dream, Erica laughed and playfully swatted at Abe as he leaned down to kiss her again—

"_Angel…_"a voice hissed, seething.

Erica froze and gazed up at Abe; his obsidian, almond-shaped eyes were perfect mirrors of her own: wide with surprise. But if Abe hadn't spoken, then who…? Erica's stomach clenched as she recognized the harsh breathing coming from somewhere beyond Abe: _Kroenen_. Too late, she remembered the clockwork assassin's parting words to her in the alley:_ "Watch for me in your dreams; I'll be in your head. Sleep with one eye open."_ In her exhaustion she had completely forgotten, despite that Kroenen had warned her _twice_. And now she would pay for her negligence.

Dreading what she was about to see, but unable to resist looking, Erica half rolled, half leaned over so she could see around Abe. Her heart stopped. Kroenen stood no more than a few feet away, watching her—no, _them_. He was looking from her to Abe, who was still leaning over her, poised to kiss her again. For some reason, embarrassment pushed aside horror, and Erica felt a flood of heat rise in her cheeks as she blushed and looked at the floor.

"Erica…" Kroenen said quietly, his voice an eerie whisper. She could hear the slow, malevolent smile in his voice. She didn't dare to look up at him. "I see you've been dreaming."

The lights went out, plunging her into complete darkness. Blind, she waited unmoving and tense in the blackness, her heart pounding, willing her eyes to adjust faster. When they had, the sight that met them was far from comforting.

Everything had changed. Abe had vanished and she was surrounded by an alien dreamscape; the sky and ground were both black and indistinguishable from each other, so the horizon, if there was one, was invisible. There was a light source somewhere behind and above her, and the light filtered out dimly across the place and gradually faded because of distance, revealing nothing—no objects, no textures. No sounds or smells. Only blackness. Her dream was under Kroenen's control.

Frightened, Erica awkwardly scrambled to her feet, her heart pounding audibly in the silence with horror and the last vestiges of Abe's kisses. She nervously scanned the landscape, her entire body tense with dread as she waited for whatever Kroenen had decided to inflict on her now. His words to her in Moldavia began spontaneously playing in her head, like the soundtrack from a horror movie: _"I wouldn't miss turning your dreams into nightmares for _anything._"_ The memory of his laughter, depraved and psychotic, rang coldly though her head, seeping through her veins like ice. _"I'll be the thing that keeps you awake at night, the thing that haunts your dreams…"_

The back of her neck prickled eerily; he was behind her.

_Shit,_ Erica thought. _Shit, shit, SHIT!_

She whirled around and there he was, the two round, faintly glinting glass circles of his mask hovering in the dark. Kroenen stood only a few feet away from her, on the far edge of the bright column of light, his outline merging seamlessly with the darkness that surrounded him. Erica tensed to defend herself, expecting him to attack her. But he didn't move; he stared at her, as if she were an apparition that had suddenly appeared to him. They stood, each watching the other, neither moving. Simply watching. The silence was driving Erica insane. _What is he going to do? Why is he here? _Is_ he here? This could be a nightmare my brain created, maybe…_She didn't believe herself for a second, though. She knew the truth, horrible though it was to contemplate. Her eyes focused again on Kroenen; he still hadn't moved, hadn't done anything threatening but appear and stare at her. Finally, his inaction drove her to speak.

"Are you…really here?" she tentatively asked, desperately hoping that what she knew to be true was not.

"As real as I can be in a dream. And yes, before you ask, I am in your mind, thanks to my beacon. And your own foolishness. I gave you fair warning."

"What do you want?" she asked cautiously, eyeing him for any sign that he meant her harm.

"To talk to you," he said simply.

Erica narrowed her eyes at him, instantly suspicious of his intentions. The assassin slowly raised his arms, holding them out at his sides as if to show that he was unarmed and that his intentions were peaceful. Eerily, the gesture also seemed like an embrace. He stepped towards her—Erica didn't wait; she ran. The dreamscape changed and suddenly she was running through a maze of high, grey stone walls that disturbingly reminded her of their encounter in the alleys. Kroenen's voice followed her:

"Why are you running? I'm not hurting you, am I?"

Erica kept running; she bolted through the labyrinth of passages, completely disoriented. But what did it matter? She wasn't trying to get out; she was only trying to get away.

_Abe! Abe, wake me up! _She mentally yelled, trying to direct her thoughts at him. _Where _are_ you?_ He had said he would watch over her…

She rounded a corner—Kroenen stood waiting for her. She choked back a shriek and tried to turn away—he grabbed for her and her terror intensified as he caught hold of her and his arms wrapped possessively around her, holding her against his chest as effectively as any chains.

"Don't worry," he murmured, in a voice that was probably intended as comforting, but only increased her apprehension. "This is only a dream—or a nightmare, as you would doubtlessly call it—I cannot hurt you, and even if I could, I would not."

Erica didn't believe him for a second. "_Liar!_" she hissed. She struggled against him, and, having abandoned all hope that Abe would intervene, screamed at herself: "_WAKE UP!_"

And to her surprise, she did. Her eyes flew open—and spotted her bedside table. The green, glowing numbers of her digital clock gleamed through the darkness. She sighed in relief and closed her eyes as she started to bring her wildly beating heart under control. Her bedroom; she was safe. Actually, she was surprised she had been so successful in evicting Kroenen from her mind. _I wonder if Abe would know why, _she thought.

Wait. Abe. Where was Abe? He had been right next to her when she had fallen asleep on the sofa in Broom's study—

_In which case, what the_ HELL_ am I doing in my bedroom?! This isn't where I went to sleep!_

Her eyes flew open. Her room was dark, but it was darker than usual above her head. And then something in the darkness above her face glinted. Like glass. And metal.

_Kroenen's mask!_

Erica froze, surprised and terrified beyond belief. It _was_ him; she could see his outline in the darkness, could hear the all too familiar tick of his clockwork heart, could smell the scents of old blood and leather that always clung to him, could feel the mattress of her bed tilting down in the direction of where he was kneeling over her.

He had tricked her. She was still trapped in her dream!

Erica's mouth opened and she tried to speak, tried to scream, tried to curse at him all at once, but all that came out was a strangled sound.

Kroenen leaned over her, gazing down into his Angel's grey eyes. They were beautiful, even wide with terror as they were now. He sighed heavily, and gently ran his fingers over her cheek.

"I wish you wouldn't run like that," he murmured. "All I want is to talk to you. You made me realize something wonderful. An epiphany, if you like."

All Erica could do was stare helplessly up at him, into the voids of his dark lenses as the ticking of his clockwork heart filled her ears and his hand ghosted over her face. She was too frightened to be able to think straight; a million thoughts rushed through her head. Was he lying or telling the truth? He _had_ been acting odd in the alleys, like he didn't know his own mind. But of course he was lying, his only reason for living was to torture and murder her—

"My Angel, you will drive us _both_ to insanity," Kroenen murmured. Impulsively, he allowed his fingers to trail along her hairline, and then, finally, snake their way through her chestnut tresses.

Erica felt his cold fingers roaming through her hair and felt a sickening jolt in her stomach akin to an electrical shock. Instantly adrenaline unfroze her muscles and she lashed out at him; both of her hands collided with his chest, violently pushing him off of her and the bed.

"_Get the HELL OFF me!_" she yelled.

Kroenen tumbled to the floor and gracefully got to his feet; Erica scrambled off the bed, keeping her eyes locked on him as her hands groped desperately in the darkness for the dagger that always lay on her bedside table. Her search was in vain; her fingers met with nothing but the lamp and clock. _But of course, this is a dream, _she realized, _And he's in control._

Kroenen started to reach for her again, but she jerked away as if she had been bitten by a snake. Kroenen's reaction was odd; he seemed disappointed, as though he had done nothing more but invited her to dance and been rudely rebuffed.

No longer sure of his intentions, and fueled by fear and confusion, she did the only thing she could do: she took up a fighter's stance, her feet far apart to give her stability, and her body tense, her fists raised slightly, ready for action or flight. Weaponless, she knew she didn't stand a chance.

"Don't touch me," she warned, her voice hard.

"Why? Because I'm not good enough?" he asked bitterly.

"Good enough?" she asked, now thoroughly bewildered.

"Your fish-man. You enjoyed dreaming about _him_, didn't you?" he said quietly, resentment and accusation in his voice.

Erica stared at him. There was no denying that the tone in the assassin's voice sounded like _jealousy_, of all things. But, that couldn't be, because if he was jealous, then—

"All I want is to talk to you," Kroenen continued, his voice full of a forced calm, as if to cover for what his anger had allowed to escape. "And you are making that quite difficult. Truly, the amount of trouble you have caused me is unbelievable."

"I try my best," Erica shot back.

"Impudence," he said, but strangely he did not sound angry.

Erica gazed at his motionless figure, wondering. He was acting so _strange_…What was he trying to do?

"What game are you playing?" she demanded.

"Life and death, Angel. Life. And death."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

Kroenen cocked his head to the side, as though studying her. It suddenly struck her just how odd the situation was: though it was a dream, here she was, standing in her bedroom, having a nearly civil conversation with the same man that had tried to kill her only hours before.

Abruptly, a ripple seemed to go through the room and its objects, as though what had appeared to be solid was actually a piece of cloth fluttering in a breeze. Kroenen instantly stiffened; his mask turned to both sides, as though he was looking for something that only he was aware of. The dreamscape wobbled again, this time more violently. The far corner of the room turned translucent and began to rapidly disintegrate, the particles swept off into the void of blackness that seemed to lie beyond the room. Kroenen gazed at it, and then the dark, soulless eyepieces turned back to her, fixing her with an invisible stare.

"I believe the next move is yours," Kroenen said.

By now the process of disintegration was rapidly encroaching on the room; already half of it was gone, as though a giant eraser was blotting it out. Unsure, Erica tried to speak, but her tongue felt like lead in her mouth. In fact, all of her limbs felt like they were encased in half-frozen mud, and time seemed to be slowing. Even the steady _tick tock, tick tock, tick tock_ of Kroenen's clockwork heart was drawing out, the ticks growing further and further apart.

Abruptly the little of the room that remained collapsed under her feet as though made of cloth, whipping up around her as she fell, spiraling dizzily down through darkness, feeling a strange yanking sensation at the back of her brain as though something had separated from it and left—

"ERICA!"

Her eyes flew open and reality hit her like a bucket of ice water being dumped over her head. Actually, that was a more that accurate description, since it felt like water was dripping on her. But no, that couldn't be…disoriented, and unable to shake the sensation of falling, she forced her eyes to focus on the blue, moving blur above her.

Abe, his black, almond shaped eyes wide with alarm, stood over her, his blue skin shining wetly; he was dripping all over everything, including her. That, at least, explained the water.

"Erica—he's gone—are you okay?" he asked, kneeling down. Abe put his hands on either side of her head; his dark eyes searched her face, and she was sure she could feel his mental presence searching her brain for damage. "What did he—I'm sorry—I didn't realize—I felt—but it was too late. I tried to wake you—but he was already gone—"

Erica surged up from the sofa and threw her arms around him. Abe's gills rapidly brushed her cheek; he was breathing hard. She could tell he was just as afraid as she was.

"Ja, I'm fine. I'm fine. He let me go," she murmured softly. Embracing as they were, she could feel his heart thundering in his chest.

He pulled back from her; his expression of guilt and distress looked odd on his face since he was usually so composed. "I'm so sorry…by the time I woke up and got out of my tank and tried to wake you he was already gone…"

"It's alright…he didn't do anything…just frightened me…I'm okay …"

XXXXX

_Bellamie Mental Hospital_

_Night_

The embers smoldered in the cold autumn air, glowing red in the darkness; here and there some flared brighter, brought to life by a breeze that encouraged them into flames. But these tiny flames could never hope to outdo the blazing, fiery inferno that had engulfed the building only minutes before, barreling down hallways and shattering windows, showering glass onto the street below. No, these flames were tame compared to that hell.

The breeze softly sifted through the ashes, rustling through a pile of flame curled bits of paper that were all that remained of an extensive photograph collection. The dented, blackened metal remains of fire extinguishers lay half buried, the red paint seared from their exteriors. No one, least of all their owner, had ever had the opportunity to use them. A few gaunt, charred boards, twisted by the heat, were all that remained of the room's furniture and the beams that had once framed the now roofless room. The bed itself was gone; the metal frame had melted so fast it had vaporized. Its former occupant lay on what remained of the floor. In a strange contrast to the scene around her, the young woman's pale, naked body had been untouched by the fire; her long black hair cascaded unscathed over the rubble and cinder strewn floor. And despite the destruction around her, her face was peaceful.

Liz Sherman, the pyroknietic, lay unconscious among the ashes.

One of the shadows among the ruins was darker then the others; it moved, detached itself from the night, taking on what was undeniably a human form. The hem of long black robes stirred the ashes. Grigory Rasputin. He gazed down at Liz through his glass eyes; they were more for aesthetics because he did not need them to see, one such as himself did not require eyes. Under the skin of his arms there came movement, the writhing rearrangement of his muscles as something like a tentacle wriggled beneath them. Grigory smiled. He listened for a moment as distant, indistinct cries for help reached his ears, followed by the scream of sirens approaching the mental hospital.

Then he turned away, satisfied. He was finished here.

Author's Notes: Whew! Was that a huge, action packed chapter or what? No wonder it took me so long to write it…please review and tell me what you thought, or if you have any suggestions!


	16. Blood and Iron

Chapter 16: Blood and Iron

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Richard, Agatha, Luke, Brittany, and the plot that isn't from the movie belong to me.

Author's Notes: A BIG thank you to those that reviewed, and thank you all for your patience, I know it's been a long wait for this chapter! I'm in college, and have practically no time to write, but was able to finish this chapter because of winter break. So I suppose you all can think of this as a belated Christmas present. Cheers! In this chapter I have once more involved the werewolves in the plot, and I've answered my own question as to what Ilsa was doing while Kroenen and the Sammaels were running around in the tunnels causing havoc. German to English translations: 'Nein' is no. Enjoy the chapter!

Note: In order to get on with the story ASAP, in this chapter I'm going to skip replying to everyone that reviewed. Sorry—I promise I'll do it in the next chapter.

"O, wonderful, when demons tell the truth! More wonderful, when angels are so angry."—_Shakespeare's Richard III_

_Abandoned __Subway Platform_

_Morning_

The collective mood on the platform was thick with tension. Agents Quarry and Moss were trying to project an air of calm, but their nervousness showed as they continuously checked and re-checked their weapons. Hellboy idly flicked his lighter open and closed; the sharp metallic click echoed in the enclosed concrete space.

HONK! HONK!

Agent Moss jumped as a subway train raced by in a rush of air and then was gone, rattling off into the darkness of the subway system. Moss self-consciously straightened his jacket and tie, trying to regain his composure. He had recovered from the wounds he had sustained during the incidents with the vampire and the werewolves, but was, understandably, a bit jumpy as a result. In the middle of the platform Abe hadn't moved a muscle; he was resting on a crazily tilting, three-legged bench, skimming the morning newspaper. The front headline proclaimed: _Six Dead after Break-in at __Machen__ Library_. Erica was over by one of the walls, eyeing some old movie posters and garish graffiti. Her hair was even again, thanks to Marie Baker's efforts with a pair of scissors; apparently the head custodian dabbled in cosmetology in her spare time.

Hellboy flicked his lighter open and shut again and Abe lowered the newspaper just enough so that the demon could see his friend's disapproving stare. Hellboy only smiled and pulled the stump of a cigar out of his pocket; he flicked his lighter open again and lit it. He took a deep breath and breathed out a cloud of smoke, then deliberately flicked his lighter shut as hard as he could. Beside him Agent Clay winced.

"What time did your sister say they'd be here?" Hellboy asked, turning to Erica.

"Soon," she replied. The bruises on her throat had taken on a nasty yellow tinge, and she had dark circles under her eyes. Hellboy couldn't blame her; an undead assassin invading you dreams was sure to be a sleep wrecker. "When I called Brittany she said it might be hard to contact the other werewolves. Since they were out so late last night most of them are probably taking advantage of the weekend and sleeping in."

Hellboy grunted and shoved the lighter into one of his deep trench coat pockets. "Hope they show up. They'll be a good addition to our team."

There was a rustling as Abe folded his newspaper and set it aside. "They have some heightened senses and abilities, but they won't be able to shift shape," he reminded them as he stood up.

"Yeah, but Luke offered their help," Hellboy said. "And we could sure use some."

They were short by two members. Professor Broom had opted to stay behind, saying he wouldn't be much use hobbling around in underground passageways blocked by rubble. Hellboy had told his father that wasn't true, and that he was a valuable part of the team regardless of his age, but in his heart Hellboy knew his father was right. Agent Myers, on the other hand, had taken a taxi to Bellamie Mental Hospital—or, at least, what remained of it—to see Liz and try to convince her to return to the BPRD. Hellboy thought the agent might actually have a chance: it turned out that Myers's area of expertise was in hostage negotiations.

_Couldn't be more perfect, _Hellboy thought. _Maybe father did know what he was doing when he hired the guy._

Hellboy hoped Myers was successful; he was worried about Liz. When he had visited her last night she had been so certain that she was learning to control her pyrokinetic abilities, and then, only hours after he left, she had burned down another building. As yet no one knew why; Liz had refused to talk to anyone since she had woken up.

_She needs to be back here,_ Hellboy thought,_ back with people that understand her…people like me…_

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of something moving in the subway tunnel beyond the edge of the platform. Everyone had jerked to attention, their eyes focused on the dark passageway and the sounds of scrabbling issuing from inside it.

"Stinky?" Hellboy asked, shooting a look at Abe. The fish-man was the only one that didn't look concerned.

"No," Abe replied. "It's—"

But he was cut off by the arrival of two forms that suddenly emerged from the tunnel, climbing across the ceiling; they abruptly swung down and dropped onto the platform, landing on their feet. Luke grinned at them, his expression lopsided and distorted as always by the slack side of his face; it made him look slightly insane. Beside him stood a young girl with chin-length blond hair, who gazed around with wide eyes at the people—especially Hellboy and Abe—assembled on the subway platform. Hellboy was just about to ask who she was, when the girl happily shouted, "_ERICA!_" and ran towards the shocked-looking special agent and enveloped her in a hug.

"Brittany?" Erica asked, looking confused and startled. She looked at Luke over the top of her sister's head. "Why—?"

"Thought you'd like to see her again," Luke replied. "And she told me she'd follow me here if I didn't let her come." He already had out his trademark deck of cards and was shuffling them. Hellboy eyed them with irritation; just like the last time he had met the werewolf the compulsive shuffling was really annoying him.

"What goes around comes around; that's what you get for irritating us by flicking your lighter open and closed," Abe said, clearly having picked up on his friend's thoughts.

Hellboy snorted. "Did I ask for your opinion?"

Erica was still staring between Luke and her sister, who was still hugging her. The agents were staring at Brittany as well. Hellboy saw Abe's mouth twitch as though he wanted to say something to Luke, but had stopped himself. Hellboy had a feeling he knew what the problem was, because he was definitely seeing one. And he, unlike Abe, did not hesitate to point it out.

"She's the only one you brought with you?" Hellboy asked Luke. Abe turned and stared at him in disbelief. "What?" Hellboy asked. Abe only shook his head as though Hellboy had said something incredibly stupid.

"I think the real question is why you have knowingly endangered the life of a fourteen-year-old by bringing her here," Abe said.

At this Brittany finally let go of her sister. "What? You think I can't take care of myself?" Brittany demanded.

Hellboy snorted to cover up a laugh. The sound drew Brittany's eyes to him, and this time Hellboy was unable to restrain a chuckle. "No offense, half-pint," he said, grinning.

"Um, Brittany, this is Hellboy and Abe. You remember me telling you about them?" Erica asked. Her sister crossed her arms and nodded, still shooting angry looks in Hellboy's direction. "And it's not that they don't think you can't take care of yourself, they're just concerned for your safety," Erica said, trying to be tactful.

"That's the same thing!" Brittany insisted. "I helped scare off that assassin dude last night! Yeah, what's-his-name, Kroenen!"

"There were a lot more than two of you," Erica pointed out gently. "And we're not down here to find him. We're going after the Hell Hounds we were chasing last night."

"Yeah? So what's the problem?"

"When you kill one, two more show up."

"Oh," Brittany said, understanding in her eyes. She looked around at the others on the platform, and then her expression turned to one of bemusement. "You're going to kill these self replicating things with just six people?"

"That's where you were supposed to come in. Well, not you personally," Erica added hastily. "When I called you I only meant for you to relay my message to the other werewolves, not come in person."

"Oh." Brittany looked disappointed. Her shoulders slumped, and suddenly Hellboy felt sorry for the kid.

"Hey," he said, striding over to Brittany. He crouched down so he could look her in the eyes. "I know you just wanna help, but your sister really cares about you. She doesn't want you to get hurt, or someone else to get hurt because she's tryin' to keep you safe. Okay?" He patted her on the back, accidentally knocking her forward. "Sorry," he apologized, putting a steadying hand on her shoulder.

"So you're sending me home?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Yeah—"

Hellboy was interrupted by a strange roar that echoed down the subway tunnel and filled the platform. Everyone froze and the agents raised their weapons. The roar slowly died away, leaving them in an uneasy silence broken only by the soft bubbling of the water in Abe's breathing apparatus.

"Ooookay, I'm pretty sure that wasn't a train," Brittany said, backing up into Erica and nervously staring down the tracks that vanished into the darkness.

"Sammael," Abe said in explanation.

"Damn," Hellboy cursed. He looked at Erica. "We can't send her back now; it's not safe."

Erica nodded, biting her lip. Agent Clay's face was stony; he clearly wasn't happy about having to keep track of a civilian on top of everything else. If a werewolf even counted as a civilian…God, today was obviously going to be a weird one.

"Clay, give those two our spare locator belts and earphones," Hellboy said. He looked Luke up and down. "Need any weapons?"

The werewolf grinned; behind his human lips long canine-like teeth flashed in the light. "We should be good," he said, pausing in his card shuffling to hold up his hands, which ended in odd curving claw-like nails. "We'll smell and hear anything long before it gets near us. Our senses are many times better than a human's." He paused for a moment as another roar echoed up from the depths of the tunnel, this time louder and closer. "On second thought, got any spare guns?" he asked.

XXXXX

_Abandoned __Subway Area_

They strode in single file through a tunnel dimly lit by the agents' flashlights and the blue light filtering in from the subway shaft. The walls and old steel columns were encrusted with rust and mold; here and there a dark, slimy sludge grew on surfaces, its existence sustained by the constant drip of water from overhead. Erica shuddered as a cold droplet hit the back of her neck and ran down, soaking the neck of her tank top. She pulled her black trench coat tighter around her. If it weren't for the walls around them, she would have thought they were in a cave.

_Or a rainstorm,_ she thought darkly as more water dripped onto her head.

Hellboy was in front of her, and in front of him was Abe, leading the way. Under ordinary circumstances Erica would have been helping him with her visions, but besides Grigory's warning not to use them to spy on him or anything to do with him, she had her sister to keep an eye on. A scowl crossed her face as she mentally berated Luke for allowing Brittany to come. If anything happened to her sister, Luke would have to answer for it.

Erica stepped over a fallen steel beam and squeezed through the narrow space under some pipes and another steel beam that was leaning precariously against the wall. Hot steam gushed from a hole in the wall beside her, obscuring her vision. She waved at it and moved through it, narrowly avoiding stepping on Hellboy's tail in front of her. Unaware of the close call, the demon continued walking, breathing out a cloud of cigar smoke that added to the already low visibility in the tunnel.

"Hey!" Brittany yelped as she stumbled through the steam and right into Erica's back. Erica turned to make sure she was okay and then continued walking, stepping over huge chunks of jagged concrete and other rubble; stones and rusted wire crunching under the heels of her jackboots.

"You said those eggs needed dark and humid? Well, they've hit the jackpot," Clay said, his voice echoing loudly in the confined space.

Erica climbed over another pile of concrete caked with lichens and hopped down. To her surprise, the floor was covered in dirty black and white tiles in a checkerboard pattern.

"The subway lines, uh, they all converge right around here," Clay continued. "Right below us is the old reservoir; it was abandoned in the mid thirties."

The beams of the agents' flashlights swept over the room, revealing old wooden desks, all waterlogged and sagging with rot, piled against the walls beside a shelf of yellowed books. Typewriters were heaped everywhere. Erica guessed they must be in the basement or storage room of an old building.

Brittany was still standing on the pile of rubble, glancing dubiously down at the cracked tiles several feet below her.

"Uh, could someone give me a hand here?"

Erica suppressed a smile and helped her much shorter sister down to the floor. Luke scrambled down behind her, his claw-like nails skittering against the rough concrete. His feet on firm ground again, he brushed off his jeans and black leather jacket. Erica glared at him when he looked up.

"What?" he asked, feigning innocence.

BAMMM! BAMM!

Erica whirled around to see Hellboy pummeling a wall, pounding it like a jackhammer. The old bricks cracked and tumbled down in a cloud of dust accompanied by a cacophonous crash that made everyone except Hellboy wince.

The demon stood back and eyed his work, taking another drag on his cigar.

"What have you done?!" Erica hissed at him. "Why not just yell at the top of your lungs and announce ourselves?"

Hellboy shrugged; chips of concrete fell from his shoulders and stone dust rose from the surface of his trench coat. "Figured they knew we were here already, judging by the roaring. Now are you coming or not?" He gestured at the new hole in the wall.

Erica nodded but drew her baton swords before proceeding through. She ducked instinctively as she passed under the bricks and, once on the other side, moved sideways and flattened her back against the wall so she could safely inspect the abandoned, filthy shower room.

"All clear," she said after a moment. Hellboy had already stepped through.

"Quarry, Moss," he said, turning back to the hole, "You two, check that dump and then join us. And keep track of that flamethrower. Anything shows up, shoot first, shoot fast, don't miss. Everyone else, you're with us."

XXXXX

_Abandoned __Subway Area_

_Furnace Room_

Dressed head to toe in black, Ilsa leaned against a rusty metal wall, toying with her handgun as she made certain it was clean and in working order. She had just gotten back from making a series of phone calls. As usual, she had acted as a front for Grigory and Kroenen; she handled all the social interactions for obvious reasons. Through bribery it had been relatively easy to acquire three plane tickets for a private flight to Russia. It had cost a considerable amount of gold, but it was worth it to avoid security procedures, and, most of all, metal detectors. It was essential that particular modern invention was avoided: beyond Ilsa's preference for traveling armed, Kroenen would never be able to explain why his entire body was laced with metal, and the last thing Ilsa or Grigory wanted was for Kroenen to leave a bread-crumb-like-trail of slaughtered guards throughout the airport and out onto the tarmac.

_Although, it would be amusing to a degree,_ she thought, smiling slightly.

During their flight they would make a brief detour to Germany and revisit the burned ruins of the mansion they had called home during WWII. There was a certain item they needed to retrieve from the underground maze of rooms: an enormous block of black stone. Ilsa smiled grimly. It would truly be a pleasure to see the expression on Erica's face when she saw the stone block and knew that bloody justice was about to be served.

Ilsa pulled six bullets from her pocket and began loading them into the chamber, one at a time. Each one was pure silver, and they shone coldly despite the firelight.

"Expecting werewolves?" Kroenen's voice said from across the room.

Ilsa raised her head. Kroenen's partially unmasked face met her gaze, his lidless eyes staring at her through two holes in the black cloth mask over his face, the flesh around his eye sockets red and raw. His nightmarish visage was disturbing, but she had long ago learned how to keep the shock and nausea she felt from showing on her face.

"A bullet is a bullet," she answered curtly. "They will be just as effective on any of the BPRD's agents if the werewolves don't appear."

The assassin nodded slightly and bent his head to his work; he had detached his mechanical hand from his wrist and it was hunched spider-like on the desk before him. He carefully prodded one of the gears, making a minute adjustment. The fingers twitched in response. "Erica is mine, Ilsa," he murmured.

"What makes you think I'd shoot her?" Ilsa asked quickly, trying to keep the surprise from her voice. It was true, she had entertained thoughts about going after the girl, but not seriously; it wasn't her duty. It was Kroenen's, and it would wait until Russia as Rasputin had ordered.

"Guilty conscience?" the assassin asked, slowly looking up at her so he could fix her with his lidless blue eyes.

"As if," she said dryly. But she couldn't meet his gaze; she looked at the floor instead.

Kroenen returned to his work. "What makes me think you would try to kill her? The same reason I would: revenge. But she's mine to do with as I please until Russia, short of killing her. The rest of the agents, feel free. They're yours."

Ilsa opened her mouth to reply when Kroenen sharply raised his head and held up his hand, silencing her. A pounding noise was coming from nearby.

"They're here," he hissed. Ilsa didn't have to ask whom he meant.

"Where?"

"Close. You should leave." He stood, leaving his hand on the table; it blindly drummed its fingers against the desk, as if expressing Kroenen's impatience to confront Erica again. One handed, he sorted through the papers on his desk, found an engraving depicting Sammael, and carefully placed it on top where it was certain to be seen by any trespassers. Then he picked up his mechanical hand and pushed it onto his wrist; there was a sharp metallic click as the pieces connected. He flexed his fingers experimentally, apparently pleased by his most recent adjustments.

Ilsa scowled slightly at the assassin's order, but she obeyed; she placed the last of the six silver bullets in her gun, clicked the chamber closed, put the weapon on her belt, and strode across the room to the door.

Behind her she heard Kroenen winding up his clockwork heart.

XXXXX

_Abandoned __Subway Area_

_Shower Room_

Brittany was excited. Here she was, on a real adventure, exploring the forgotten underground passageways of New York! And not only that, but she was with her sister, who, until last night, Brittany had been convinced she would never see again. True, she was a little nervous—all right, a _lot_ nervous—considering the roar they had heard on the platform, but she had her werewolf abilities to defend herself. _How big can a Hell Hound be__, anyways_ she thought. _It sounds like a dog, so maybe t__he si__ze of a German shepherd__ And even if they do double every time you kill one, these guys wouldn't be here if they didn't know how to kill them, right?_

"You are real secret agents, aren't you?" she asked the only agent present. She thought she had heard the big red guy call him 'Clay'.

Agent Clay cracked a chemical flare and tossed it, watching it skitter across the filthy tile floor, before he answered her. "Yes we are. Didn't you believe your sister after you saw Abe and Hellboy?"

"Well, yes, but I just wanted to hear you say it."

Across the room, following Abe's directions, Hellboy had just lifted and dropped an enormous rusty manhole cover, and cockroaches were pouring out of the hole in the floor, running in all directions and disappearing into cracks in the tiles. Brittany wrinkled her nose in disgust and sat on the edge of a stained sink so her feet were a safe distance from the insects. Nobody else had bothered to move out of the way; Brittany had the sneaking suspicion that they might unfortunately be used to things like this. _Gross,_ she thought.

"I'm glad I'm not human," Abe muttered. "This place would be an embarrassment."

Hellboy grunted in response, bringing his huge booted foot down on a group of the slower roaches and crushing them into oblivion. He cracked two more flares and dropped them through the hole and into the cistern below with a splash.

Brittany wrinkled her nose again. The smell from the water in the cistern was disgusting, something like stagnant rainwater mixed with diluted sewage and other dark, nameless underground smells.

"Be careful, Abe," Erica muttered, eyeing the water warily. "In the late thirties I dove into the water through a hole in a cave floor; I was almost eaten by giant eels called Sentinels. I still have the scars."

Brittany quickly looked up from inspecting the suspicious looking stains on the sink, hoping to hear more; Erica hadn't told her anything about that last night when she had been giving a synopsis of her life since her disappearance. Brittany, however, was disappointed; Hellboy spoke up before Erica had a chance to elaborate.

"Yeah, I've got that all taken care of," the demon said, breathing out another stream of cigar smoke. He reached into a pocket of his trench coat and began digging around. Brittany watched him closely, waiting to see what he was looking for, but was distracted as her swinging legs, which she'd been kicking back and forth while sitting on the sink, struck something beneath her that felt like paper. Curious, she leaned down and looked under the sink. Aside from the rusting pipes and a multicolored, thick layer of mold, a ripped newspaper lay in a heap on the floor, as though it had been carelessly tossed aside. She picked it up and turned it right side up, expecting to see headlines from decades past. Instead, to her surprise, she saw it was the previous day's paper, complete with the articles about the history behind Halloween traditions, the times and ages for trick-or-treaters, and the address for a public costume ball and contest.

_How did yesterday's newspaper get down here? _she wondered, brow furrowing. _A plumber or some other city maintenance worker?_

"Find something interesting to read?" a quiet, courteous voice asked.

Startled, Brittany looked up into Abe's black, almond shaped eyes. "Uh, hi," she said, somewhat nervously. "No, I just found this lying here. Kinda weird; it's yesterday's newspaper."

Abe's eyes widened. "May I see it?"

"Sure," she said, handing it over and eyeing Abe's webbed hands and long fingernails as she did so.

No sooner had the fish-man touched the newspaper then his black eyes turned glassy and his entire body went very still. Brittany stared at him, wondering if something was wrong.

"Are you—?" she started to ask, but the words had barely left her lips when he snapped out of it.

"Erica," Abe said, turning suddenly to face her and the others, "they were here."

"What?" Hellboy asked. He paused, still digging around in his pocket. Everyone else had also gone very still.

"The newspaper Brittany found. They were here…There was a chair, there," he said, gesturing. "A blond woman with a newspaper."

"Ilsa," Erica said grimly.

Abe nodded. "The other two have recently passed through as well."

"Crap. That's not good," Hellboy said.

"Tell me about it," Erica replied, peering warily through the doorways and into the deep shadows. Her hands had strayed to the handles of her sheathed baton swords. "I suspected they might be down here, since the Hell Hounds are, but I was really hoping I would be wrong. I've personally seen far too much of Kroenen in the last twenty-four hours, and I'm not exactly looking forward to fighting him again."

"Can't blame you," said Luke. "You were losing pretty badly when we rescued you."

"Don't remind me," Erica said, scowling.

"Hey, E, I've been doing some thinkin'. If that pinhead shows up, use these," Hellboy said, holding out his stone hand and dropping what looked like two smooth black grenades into her cupped hands.

Erica turned them over, inspecting them. She located a small, grayish label and squinted at the miniscule type, reading it aloud: "Keep out of reach of children. Side affects of using this product on a living being may include burning, bleeding, screaming, oozing, scalding, etcetera. It is highly recommended that the injured party seek immediate medical attention."

"Yeah, that or keel over dead," Luke said dryly.

Erica ignored him. "What are—?"

"Greek fire," Hellboy said, smiling proudly around the cigar stump clamped between his teeth. "That should fix Kroenen. If he tries to put the flames out with water, they'll only get bigger. Just pull the pin and throw it. And when I say throw it, you better do it quick."

"Danke, but Kroenen isn't alive enough to die."

Hellboy shrugged. "Then he'll be busted up pretty bad, won't he?"

That made her smile, just a little. "Thank you." She turned to Brittany. "You heard all that?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Because I'm giving you one." Erica dropped one of the capsules into her sister's hand and pocketed the other. Brittany stared at it, astonished and somewhat panicky that she was holding something that could kill someone.

"What?! Why?!"

"Just in case a Sammael shows up. And because if Kroenen is down here, he might come after you. And I might not be here to save you," Erica said. Then she added, "In truth, I don't know if you're in more danger alone or near me. So be careful, okay? And don't hesitate to use that."

Brittany gulped and nodded.

Meanwhile, Abe had gotten ready to enter the cistern; his black wetsuit shirt was folded neatly and lay beside his goggles and breathing apparatus on a spindly table Clay had found nearby. Currently Abe was tying the cord of a reliquary to his wrist; apparently Hellboy had finally located what he had been looking for in his pocket.

Abe cast another look down at the foul smelling water and frowned slightly as two more cockroaches crawled out of the hole. "Remind me why I keep doing this?"

"Rotten eggs and the safety of mankind," Hellboy replied, cracking some flares and tossing them randomly into a dark corner of the room.

"Ah."

"Be careful, okay?" Erica said, hugging Abe and looking up at him. She couldn't shake her memories of the Sentinels pursuing her through the water; she knew if anything went wrong and the Sammaels went after Abe, he would be on his own until he got out of the water. Being helpless to rescue him was a frightening and disturbing prospect.

"You too," Abe replied. He held her gaze for a moment, and leaned down and kissed her. Then he turned and plunged into the water, hardly making a splash.

Erica peered down into the water. A few bubbles surfaced, and for a brief, fleeting moment she thought she could see the dim blue glow of the light on his locator. But just as quickly as she had spotted it, it was gone and there was only the dark surface of the water, reflecting a ghostly image of herself as it sloshed loudly against the rim of the hole in the sudden silence.

"Awww! Erica has a _boyfriend!_" Brittany announced gleefully, as though revealing the secret of the century.

"They already know. I do live with all of them, remember?" Erica said, but she couldn't help smiling.

"Oh," Brittany said, looking slightly disappointed.

"Nothing to do now but wait," Luke said, leaning against a wall and looking bored. The chemical flares threw strange shadows over the slack side of his face.

"We'll be fortunate if that's _all_ we have to do today," Erica muttered, casting dark looks at the shadowy doorways and tunnels that led from the room. Any one of them could conceal a lurking Sammael, or worse, Kroenen.

There was a rustling as Hellboy unwrapped a Baby Ruth bar and took bites of it between cracking more flares. "Mmmm…good. Anybody want some?"

XXXXX

_Abandoned __Subway Area_

_Shower Room_

Kroenen studied the motley group in the shower room from his place in a dark adjoining tunnel, peering with one eye around the corner of a rusty row of lockers. He had only just arrived, and cursed himself for it; everyone present had fallen silent. If he had arrived earlier he might have overheard some sort of explanation for the very varied group of people.

One, a Native American, was clearly a werewolf, and judging by the slack side of his face and the two glittering gold rings in his ear, he was the same werewolf that had rescued Erica last night. The ghost of a scowl drifted over Kroenen's face, and then faded. He knew the werewolf would be a much less formidable opponent now that it was daylight. But it didn't really matter—he had no intention of engaging the man in battle today. Another man in a suit was clearly one of the BPRD's agents, and the red demon could be no other than Anung-un-Rama, even if he did appear to have cut off his own horns. _Odd,_ Kroenen thought, eyeing the stumps. Then his eyes fell on the creature's stone hand; it was just as Rasputin had described, down to the marks and designs that covered it.

_I wonder if he knows of his __destiny?_ Kroenen thought, watching the demon pace back and forth, eating something that looked like chocolate. The demon held out the half-eaten chocolate to someone Kroenen couldn't see because of his position at the corner of the lockers; he shifted slightly, improving his view, and a saw a young, blond haired girl politely wave away the demon's offer of candy. The assassin frowned. The presence of the little girl puzzled him. _Why would the BPRD endanger her life?_ he wondered. _She doesn't look like anything but a civilian. But best to be cautious._

Suddenly Erica came into view, walking over to the girl. Kroenen's lipless grin widened; his target was present. That pleased him. He had plans…such plans for his Angel! But the presence of a water filled collar on a table beside Erica also confirmed the presence of the fish-man, which Kroenen was not happy about. He gritted his teeth. If the fish-man interfered…!

"This doesn't really look like doll's hair. Be honest, Red, what do you think?" the agent asked, breaking the silence. The man held up a small mirror. Kroenen slowly crept away from the lockers and out into the tunnel, beginning to execute his plan: he would show himself, lure them after him, and then lose them in the underground maze, separating them from each other.

_They will be of no help to anyone, least of all themselves,_ he thought. _And when I have taken care of the others, and Erica is alone…_

The demon cracked another flare and tossed it into Kroenen's tunnel. If the assassin had had lips to smile at the perfection of the moment, he would have, as the demon's golden eyes followed the flare's sliding path—and stopped at Kroenen's boots. The demon raised his eyes slowly, staring at Kroenen. The assassin cocked his head—a subtle challenge. His clockwork whirred and hissed in the silence.

Across the room, Erica heard and whirled around to face the tunnel. The expression of horror and shock on her suddenly pale face was priceless as she stared speechlessly at him through the gloom.

That was when Anung-un-Rama went into action: he whipped out a huge gun and Kroenen darted away, running with Hellboy tearing after him, gun in one massive red hand.

"Red's on the move, I'll cover him!" Clay yelled, following Hellboy at a run.

Erica took a step after the agent and then hesitated, looking back at Brittany and the waters that concealed Abe. She was torn. If she left Brittany and Abe, she wouldn't be there to protect them if something happened. But if she stayed, her presence would surely lure Kroenen to them, and that was a situation she didn't even want to think about. Hellboy's loud running footsteps called to her from the tunnels, and she hesitated only a second longer.

"Luke, you are not to leave Brittany or Abe alone," she said slowly and seriously, fixing him with her intense gaze. "If you get the chance, get out of here."

For the briefest moment she saw him nod and then she was running into the darkness after the echoes of Hellboy and Clay's pursuit of Kroenen. She ran as though a pack of Hell Hounds were on her heels, following the sounds and paying no attention to her surroundings until she realized she had absolutely no idea where she was. Erica paused and looked around, chest heaving. She was in an intersection of sewer tunnels that created a veritable labyrinth reminiscent of catacombs. She could hear running footsteps all around her in the half-darkness, but could see no one. Nor could she tell how close the sounds actually were to her; they echoed off the walls, each time distorting crazily as they bounced off in a new direction. Erica instantly realized her mistake: she wouldn't know who was near her, friend or foe, until she literally ran into him.

"_Crap!_" she cursed. She drew her baton swords from their sheaths so fast that they made a sharp singing noise as they sliced through the air. "Kroenen certainly knew what he was doing," she muttered as she slowly stalked off into the maze, eyes darting in all directions. The assassin could be anywhere, and she had no intention of allowing him to sneak up on her as he had in the alleys.

The sounds of running seemed to be getting further away and she tried to follow them, running as quietly as she could and sticking close to the walls to prevent splashing through the water and giving away her position. Erica peered uselessly into the shadows, wishing she could see what was around her, but it was too dark to see very far. She had no idea how she was going to find Kroenen in this maze, even with their blood bond: it only gave a general feeling of nearness, not 'he's-ten-steps-to-your-left-hanging-from-the-ceiling'. Someone with his training was only found when they wanted to be, and clearly he had planned this out; he was the one in control, probably watching her and the others from some dark corner, silently laughing as they ran around like rats in his maze.

_It's almost a better idea to save my energy and __go__ sit somewhere and wait for him to find me,_ she thought darkly as she cautiously edged her way around a wall.

Footsteps came toward her and she paused, waiting tensely as they approached at a run—and then abruptly stopped. She listened for what felt like an agonizing eternity, but the sound didn't come again. Erica's heart was in her throat. She let out the lungful of air she had been holding and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself a little. It didn't work. Her hands were still hot and moist around the hilts of her blades and her heart was racing at the pace of a runaway train.

Someone was nearby, she just knew it. The problem was that she didn't know if it was Kroenen or Clay or Hellboy, and she certainly wasn't going to risk calling out. Erica slowly backed away from where she had last heard the footsteps. She thought she heard a soft ticking sound, but wasn't sure if it was real or if her imagination, fueled by fear, was creating the very sound she dreaded hearing. Cold water dripped from the ceiling onto the back of her neck, startling her and then making her shudder as it soaked into her shirt.

Now it felt like someone was breathing on the back of her neck. Erica froze, unsure whether it really was breathing, or simply the cold water evaporating and causing the goosebumps and tingling sensation on the back of her neck. _If it was Kroenen I would hear him breathing,_ she told herself, _it's raspy, and I don't hear anything…__but better to check then be dead…_

She tensed and then spun around, blades raised. Nothing. Only more tunnels and a light layer of fog-like steam hovering around near the ceiling. _But that's typical of Kroenen,_ a voice in her head told her. _You know he likes to distract people and then get __behind the__m and stab__ them in the back…_

Feeling a cold stab of fear, she whirled around, just to make sure. Still nothing. She was very unsettled and started walking, picking up her pace. Staying in one place would be stupid; encountering Kroenen while she was alone would mean her death. Even if someone heard her scream, they wouldn't be able to find her in time—abruptly she stopped, listening.

_Tick __tick__tick__tick__tick__tick__… _The sound of Kroenen's clockwork echoed, menacingly close.

This time she knew the ticking wasn't a hallucination. But as she looked around, she saw only more damned tunnels and archways and rubble. She forced down the panic welling up inside her and walked faster, turning randomly on the spot, expecting to see the assassin coming at her at any moment, and desperately hoping she would see Hellboy or Clay instead. Now she heard breathing, raspy and ragged, sucked through the black metal mask he wore. She knew he was behind her, following her, hunting her down; his breathing was practically in her ear! Her heart hammered with fear and she was sure he could hear it; the breathing and ticking were so close she could imagine closing her eyes and reaching out into the darkness and touching him. And _still_ she couldn't see him!

He was scaring the hell out of her; she turned to face the sound of the ticking and backed away from it, but now she couldn't be sure where it was coming from, because it seemed to have moved. Erica swallowed thickly and cautiously turned in a circle, her heart slamming against her ribcage. Nothing.

"_Damn it!_ Where are you?" she muttered.

As if in answer to her question a gloved hand snaked around her neck, abruptly cutting off her scream and the cry of pain that followed as iron-hard fingers dug into the bruises on her throat. Another powerful arm wrapped around her waist, trapping her arms and baton swords at her sides; she flinched and her body arched as her back was pulled firmly against Kroenen's body. Erica flat out panicked as she recognized the move that had trapped her the night before, leaving her at the assassin's mercy. She tried to scream, but Kroenen's fingers tightened and she gurgled and choked horribly. She struggled against him, but it was useless: he just held her tighter, crushing her body against his and tightening his grip on her throat until she couldn't move anymore and she couldn't breathe; it was like being crushed in a vise. Tears of pain sprang into her eyes.

"I'll stop choking you if you promise not to scream," he whispered coaxingly in her ear.

Erica realized she had no choice but to comply. She was unable to choke out a response because of his grip on her throat, so she signaled her answer by ceasing to struggle. Her heart boomed in her ears like thunder in the silence as she waited for him to let go. Her lungs were burning but she forced herself to hold still, even as stars appeared before her eyes and her throbbing, air-starved brain began to wonder if Kroenen had been lying, if he was going to strangle her to death—

Kroenen's fingers loosened, releasing some of the pressure on her throat, and she desperately sucked in a lungful of cold underground air that made her just as dizzy as choking. The assassin kept his gloved hand in place, wrapped tightly around her throat, ready to cut off her scream, but Erica was beyond caring as she focused on the task of gasping in as much air as she could, gagging as she inhaled his suddenly overpowering scent of leather and old blood.

"Amazing, isn't it? After all this time I still trust you to do as I say," he murmured, speaking over the sounds of her panting. "But then again, I'm too much of a gentleman to hold a grudge, aren't I, Erica?" He chuckled softly, and the sound sent chills down her spine. "Wait, of course I'm not. Which is why you're behaving yourself right now. You know what I am capable of…but I won't hurt you…"

_Liar, _Erica thought, all too aware of his fingers digging into her neck. She strained her ears for any sounds of her friends nearby, but there was only the sound of water dripping from the ceiling and the rhythmical ticking and whirring of the assassin's mechanical heart. She was on her own, and Kroenen was still crushing her against him, holding her arms and weapons perfectly still. The seconds ticked by and she and Kroenen simply stood there in the darkness, as if they had come to a standoff. Or as if he was waiting for something.

_Or he's just enjoying having me at his mercy, _she thought. Whatever his reason, she was frightened and angry and she certainly wasn't going to wait any longer.

"Kroenen," she choked out, her voice strained and hoarse because of the pressure on her throat. "What—do—you—want?"

"Making demands now? I hardly think you're in a position for that."

Suddenly he let go of her and pushed her forward so hard she stumbled through the water and her shoulder slammed painfully into the edge of a slimy stone wall. Quickly she turned to face him, her baton swords raised defensively. Kroenen stood before her, blades drawn; the assassin was nearly invisible in the shadows but for the faintly glinting glass circles of his mask and the light glimmering on his chest plate's intricate designs.

Abruptly her earphone crackled to life. It was Clay. "Erica? Red? Where are you?"

Erica hesitated to answer, eyeing Kroenen and wondering if she dared to reach for her locator belt so she could alert Clay that she was in trouble.

Kroenen seemed to read her mind. "No matter what you do, they won't find you."

He rushed at her. His attack was fierce and fast; Erica was forced backwards by the intensity of it and she stumbled over rocks and rubble as she rapidly retreated through the maze.

Suddenly the sound of footsteps came from somewhere to Erica's left; Kroenen paused in his attack to gaze in its direction. While he was distracted Erica ducked behind the nearest wall, sheathed her left baton sword, and pulled her handgun from her belt. She wasn't as good a shot with her left hand, but she was better a swordsman with her right, and there was no way she was putting herself at any further disadvantage with Kroenen nearby. Besides, she knew bullets wouldn't stop Kroenen. She was intending to play the only advantage she had: surprise.

She didn't hear the second set of footsteps anymore; she could only assume that whoever they belonged to was gone, or that the noise had been a distorted echo coming from somewhere else. She did, however, hear Kroenen's breathing on the other side of the wall. Clearly he was searching for her.

"Running away again?" Kroenen said softly, "Familiar. Haven't you learned anything new?" There was a hint of scorn in his voice.

She closed her eyes and pressed her back against the cold wall, and, ignoring the icy water that was trickling down her back, she concentrated on the sound of Kroenen's breathing and tried to pinpoint its location. She knew she would only get one shot and that she wouldn't have more than a second to look and correct her aim. Shaking, she gripped the trigger tightly and leapt out from behind the wall.

"How about _this?!_"

_BANG!_

The sound of gunfire roared like thunder in the underground space, followed almost immediately by the sharp crack of metal and glass. Triumph surged through Erica when she saw one side of Kroenen's mask was severely dented, the metal warped and the dark lens above it covered in a spider web of cracks. There was no bullet hole; apparently it had ricocheted off.

Kroenen swiftly recovered from his surprise and fixed her with a menacing stare made all the more ominous by the twin black voids of his mask's lenses; each one seemed to breathe the promise of painful retribution beyond imagination. Erica's blood froze with dread, chilling her to her very soul.

"That was not a wise move," he hissed, stalking towards her. "Nein, not at _all_."

XXXXX

_Abandoned __Subway Area_

_Shower Room_

_BANG!_

Brittany jumped with alarm as the sound of gunfire echoed through the underground. Luke looked uneasy as well; as the sound faded no screams or voices or other noises reached them to explain what might have happened. The two exchanged looks and Brittany hurried over to her friend, who was now eyeing the dark tunnel that three members of their impromptu and ragtag team had disappeared into.

"What do you think that was?" Brittany asked in a whisper. Her voice seemed loud in the silence.

"Don't know. I just hope that whoever did the shooting is on our side, and that they hit their target," Luke said uneasily. He cast a glance at the hole in the floor. "I wish Abe would finish down there and get up here," he muttered.

As if his words had been a cue for some sadistic god, the blue lights on both of their locator belts started blinking and chirping.

"Crap," Luke cursed, eyeing the cistern. "It's Abe."

"What do we do?"

"Stay here."

This option was promptly canceled when Luke's werewolf gift of super-sensitive ears picked up the sound of four clawed feet coming in their direction from somewhere in the tunnel. And clearly, based on the sound of it, the thing was big. Really, _really_ big.

"What's that?" Brittany whispered, pressing her back against his side as she stared wide-eyed and fearfully into the dark gaping maw of the tunnel. "A Hell Hound?"

"Don't know, and we're not hanging around to find out," Luke replied, drawing the handgun Agent Clay had given him. He wrapped his free arm protectively around Brittany and pulled her towards the doorway opposite the tunnel.

"But—Abe—!" she protested.

"Your sister told me to keep you both safe. I can't help Abe, so we're leaving," he said. They had already left the shower room and Luke kept walking, his ears straining for any sound that might signal danger. His task was made difficult by the constant dripping of water and the distant clatter of subway trains rattling down their tracks. But if he was nothing else, he was definitely certain that at least one Hell Hound was in the shower room. Then his stomach clenched as he remembered something.

"The Agents," Brittany whispered in horror, speaking his thoughts aloud. "They were in that other room, the one we came through! They don't know that thing is in there! We have to warn them!"

"We will when we're farther away. We don't want those monsters to hear our voices and follow them to us."

They hurried down a side tunnel, making sure to walk through the water. That, hopefully, would disguise their scent if the beasts tried to track them. The tunnel ended in what appeared to be the basement of a turn-of-the-century orphanage: old black and white pictures of sad looking children were tacked to the walls, yellowed by age and moisture; in the middle of the tile floor lay a small shoe and a water-logged book of nursery rhymes. Luke paused and listened to see if they had been followed; beside him Brittany was doing the same.

"Now?" Brittany asked urgently, looking up at him.

He was starting to nod when the screaming started, loud and horrible and full of agony; an animal's scream as it was devoured alive. Luke instinctively hugged a suddenly white-faced and shaking Brittany and pulled her away from the tunnel's mouth—the only exit and entrance—so they were out of sight in a cramped but more protected area under a set of rickety wooden stairs against a wall. He pulled his leather coat around her in a futile attempt to cover her ears and offer comfort, and they stayed pressed up against the wall for what felt like an eternity as the screaming went on and on, and then abruptly ceased, leaving a silence just as horrible. Water dripped from the ceiling into a puddle with a soft sound, scattering droplets. In the corner a rat stirred and skittered away. Luke could hear Brittany's heart pounding; she was frightened and on the verge of tears.

Luke felt guilty beyond belief. What had he been thinking, bringing her down here? She might be a werewolf, but she was a kid and had never seen real violence; they spent most nights at Richard and Agatha's, relaxing and partying. What on earth had he done?

"Luke?" she whispered.

"Yeah?"

"I don't think we can warn them anymore," she said, her voice low and rough from holding back a sob.

"No, no we can't," he said softly, still hugging her. Somewhere else in the room something shifted—more rats, no doubt, scuttling among old papers. "Come on," Luke said softly, moving out from under the stairs and pulling Brittany with him. "If we go now maybe we can get out without making targets of ourselves—"

"I'd say it's a bit too late for that," said a curt female voice behind them.

There was the unmistakable metallic click of a handgun being cocked. Luke whirled around and stopped short, the muzzle of a gun in his face. He stared at it, swallowing thickly, and then looked beyond it into the face of an arrogant blond woman. She had a cruel, satisfied smile on her face. Luke instantly pushed Brittany behind him and out of harm's way.

"Going somewhere?" the woman asked, arching a thin eyebrow. She pushed the gun against the slack side of Luke's face and he winced as the bitingly cold metal hit his skin.

"Oh _CRAP_," he muttered emphatically.

The woman's smile only widened. "I wouldn't move if I were you, _werewolf_, not unless you want to smell the stink of silver mixing with your blood."

XXXXX

_Abandoned __Subway Area_

_Furnace Room_

Hellboy stared down at the jumble of objects littering the desk. They belonged to Kroenen, judging by the masks. Hellboy wished he could radio Erica to warn her that Abe had been right about them being down here, but he was out of range; there was something underground that was blocking communications. He was cut off from everyone but Clay, and the agent was lost somewhere in the maze of sewer tunnels, trying to find his way out. Clay had lost contact with Erica only minutes before; her earphone had received the transmission, but she hadn't replied.

_That's not a good sign,_ Hellboy thought, eyeing the empty room for any trace of the assassin that had taken up residence there. Instead his eyes fell on the desk and an engraving of Sammael. His brows knit together as he picked it up in one massive hand and examined it.

A shifting noise came from somewhere above his head, accompanied by a thick string of drool. The demon looked up—and right into the crazed, rolling eyes of Sammael.

"Didn't I kill you already?" Hellboy asked.

The Hell Hound roared and lunged in reply, and they both tumbled backwards, locked together. Hellboy saw the open service shaft in the floor too late to avoid it; his boots slipped over the edge and suddenly he and Sammael were hurtling downwards, grappling as they fell.

XXXXX

_Abandoned __Subway Area_

Erica had no idea what to do. She was still retreating from Kroenen as they fought, but he didn't really seem to be trying to hurt her. It was more like he was determined to drive her retreat in a particular direction. _That can't mean anything good,_ she thought grimly as she blocked another blow from his blades.

She could feel the capsule of Greek fire in her trench coat pocket, but she couldn't see herself actually getting a chance to use it: she had both of her baton swords out, and there was no way she could hold off Kroenen's onslaught long enough to drop one blade and pull the capsule out, let alone pull the pin.

Abruptly she realized that the walls around her were more brightly lit up than the others she had passed before; it was an odd, flickering red light, like from a fire. Erica risked a glance over her shoulder and saw the light pouring out of a doorway framed by open, rust-covered doors. So this was where Kroenen wanted her to go. He was trying to trap her!

Erica held still a second too long; Kroenen seized his chance and threw himself bodily against her, pushing her into the room despite her attempts to resist. The assassin stood framed in the doorway as she stumbled backwards and fell heavily against a steel support beam, panting. And then, to her horror, he tugged the doors closed with a horrendous shriek of rusty hinges that made her skin crawl. He pulled a lever beside the doors and with the grinding of ancient gears a long, thick bolt slid across the doors and slammed into its slot with a thud that sounded like doom; a turn of an iron key secured it in its place. Now not only were any of her friends locked out, she was locked in!

She stared at Kroenen with dread as he slid the key up inside the arm of his shirt for safe keeping and then turned to face her, the firelight playing oddly over his dented mask. He had put away one of his baton swords and he held the other in a relaxed position at his side.

"Do you like my quarters?" he asked conversationally, as though they hadn't been fighting only moments before.

Erica didn't answer. Instead she slipped around the steel beam and then behind his desk, keeping it between them. She could feel the heat from the furnace on her back as her eyes darted around the room, searching for an exit, even if it was only a ventilation duct. She did spot an open service shaft sunk into the floor, but from where she stood she could see it was a long way down, and she couldn't see the bottom; the impact with the ground would surely kill her.

Kroenen slowly crossed the room and stood behind the desk, studying her. Keeping one wary eye on him, Erica's other eye roved over the room, searching for anything she could use against him. Then she saw it: to the right of one of the windows set into the furnace a long, heavy chain hung from the ceiling of oxidized ducts and pipes. If she retreated slowly enough she could grab it before the assassin knew what she was doing.

"I definitely liked your long hair better," Kroenen observed.

"Not that I give a damn what you think, but it's your own fault it's short," Erica snapped, backing away slowly and raising her blades in warning. Kroenen followed her, moving around the desk to stand in front of her. He took a step toward her for every step she took away from him.

"Need I remind you that it was you, Erica, not me, that cut it off."

"Only because you were about to slit my throat."

"I'd never do something like that. And had I actually been in the mood that evening to kill you, there's always the detail that I don't think you deserve to die that messily."

Erica stared at him. His words were becoming more cryptic by the moment. All this talk of not hurting her...it had to be a lie, doublespeak designed to get her to drop her guard. She maneuvered one of her arms behind her and slipped one of her blades into the leather sheath strapped to her leg. Kroenen didn't notice. Good. Behind her back her fingertips reached out and brushed against the chain dangling from the ceiling. She grabbed it tightly. Kroenen was almost in range. He took a step forward, then another.

And then she stepped to the side and lashed out with the chain. It caught him around his torso and wrapped around him, pinning his arms loosely at his sides. Erica caught only a glimpse of the surprised stance of his body before she kicked him, knocking his legs out from under him. The assassin crashed to the floor in a rattle of chains and, propelled by fear and adrenaline, Erica ran across the room and threw herself at the doors, slamming her baton sword down on the rusty bolt mechanism in an attempt to break it.

Nothing happened. Despite the rust that encrusted the mechanism's surface, apparently it was still solid. Erica quickly sheathed the blade and rammed her shoulder against the doors, praying the corroded brackets that the bolt passed through would break away from the doors so they would then open. The metal doors rattled and shuddered slightly under the impact, but they too were obviously not going anywhere; all her efforts had earned her was a throbbing shoulder sure to be covered in a massive bruise. Erica stared at the doors in despair, her breath coming in short, shallow pants; her chest rose and fell sharply with each gasping inhalation. Behind her she heard a rattle and then the shriek of metal; she whirled around and her breath caught in her throat as she saw Kroenen's ominous, slender black form kneeling on the floor, cutting himself free of the chain with vicious, violent strokes of his baton sword.

Erica knew she had to hurry; she threw herself at the doors again. They shuddered and rust flaked off, but they held firm. Behind her she heard the pieces of the chain drop to the floor in a crash of metal. Her stomach twisted sickeningly as she heard him coming for her. There was no escape, and after what she had done, Kroenen was bound to be in a towering temper. She would be lucky if _all_ he did was kill her.

She was just turning around, her hands beginning to draw her blades, when he seized her roughly and slammed her back against the doors. Rough rust cut into the side of her face and the bolt dug painfully into her spine as he held her there, forcing her to stare into the lenses of his mask; beyond the wraithlike reflection of her terrified face she could just barely see his lidless, bulging blue eyes.

"All I want is to talk to you," he said, his raspy voice filled with frustration. "And since you refused to listen to me last night, and continue to insist on fighting me—"

"_You keep attacking me!_" she snarled, anger getting the better of her fear.

"—you have left me no other alternative but to _force_ you to listen!"

Erica had no time to contemplate the meaning of his words; his fingers tightened mercilessly on her arms and then he threw her to the floor with such force that the back of her head slammed into the ground and vibrantly white stars burst before her eyes, obscuring her vision. She moaned in pain and tried to move, but her limbs felt like lead. The impact had stunned her. The room swam before her eyes, and somewhere nearby she heard the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor towards her.

_Come on! Move! _she thought at herself. _I have to get away! _But she felt so numb… She blinked rapidly and at last the room settled and ceased moving, though everything was still blurred. She detected movement that was far too close for comfort and tried to force her eyes to focus—

A huge weight crashed down on her chest, knocking the air from her lungs and cutting off her howl of pain as the thing hit her bruised ribs.

Gasping, Erica looked down at her body and saw a rust-streaked section of metal lockers, like the ones in the shower room, was pinning her to the floor. She strained desperately against the weight, but couldn't escape. The most she could move was her head and legs; the lockers were only on her torso, holding her arms against the floor. She was completely helpless. Horrified, she heard Kroenen's footsteps approaching, his boots sending vibrations through the floor. She turned her head to one side; a pair of jackboots stopped inches from her face.

Kroenen crouched on the floor beside her. Her dark grey eyes glittered as she looked up at him, reflecting the furnace flames and her own desperation; he could hear her ragged breathing as she struggled and squirmed against the dead weight pressing down on her chest. He sighed.

"I truly am sorry," he apologized, meaning every word, "but you left me no other choice. I hope you will forgive me."

He reached down and gently pulled the earphone off her ear, then moved around the lockers to her waist and relieved her of her locator belt and all the weaponry attached to it. He took her baton swords too, pulling them from their sheaths despite her vicious attempts to kick him. Ignoring her furious glare, he dropped her things in a drawer of his desk and locked it.

He turned his back to her and idly ran his fingers over the surface of his desk, taking a moment to enjoy his satisfaction. Erica was right where he wanted her; so far, everything was going according to plan. Behind him he heard a series of muffled thuds as she tried uselessly to shift the lockers.

"Just think, Erica, if you had permitted me to make the alterations to your muscles and bone structure that I had so meticulously planned out, you wouldn't be in this predicament, would you?" he said, speaking over his shoulder as he selected a mask from the row on his desk and, somewhat awkwardly, unbuckled the damaged one he was wearing.

His words were met by a string of vehement swearing. His skeletal grin widened and he slipped on the new mask and buckled it on before turning to face her again. "Fiery as always, hmm?" he asked, musing. "Usually a trait I admire in you, but it has made it most difficult to talk to you when you continue to assume my only goal is to kill you."

"Then maybe you should _stop_ _sneaking around __and attacking me!_" she shot back angrily, but when he turned to look at her he could see the utter confusion on her face caused by his words. His lipless grin widened. Finally, he was getting somewhere! She was actually _listening!_ He turned back to his desk and calmly, slowly sorted through a few old records, selected one, and placed it on the phonograph. He felt her eyes on him the whole time, watching his every move.

_It's__ a trick, _Erica told herself. _A tr__ick.__ He's playing with my head. Of course he wants to kill me!_

But the demon of doubt had settled in her ear and crouched there, whispering. Kroenen already had her trapped, unable to fight back. Why talk to her and play mind games if he was only going to kill her? To torment her, perhaps? That seemed unlikely; he'd had her at his complete mercy multiple times today and hadn't made any attempt at murder or torture. Why was that? Could he possibly be telling the _truth?_

_And if he is, what could he possibly have to say to me? _she wondered. The thought instantly brought up memories of his odd behavior, and particularly of his words in her dream last night: _"__All I want is to talk to you. You made me realize something wonderful. An __epiphany__, if you like."_

She cast a glance at his back. He was running his hand slowly over the gleaming metal that supported the phonograph's needle, keeping his eyes focused on the unmoving record. It couldn't hurt her to listen, she decided, and besides, it wasn't as if she had a choice, trapped as she was. She would be cautious, of course; it could be that he intended to do nothing but lie to her and deceive her, his motives as yet unknown. But on the other hand, he might really have something to say to her. She would risk it. After all she had done to him, she owed it to him to listen. And beyond that, depending on what he had to say, she wasn't sure she could risk _not _listening to him.

Kroenen watched her through his peripheral vision, subtly so she would not know he was doing so. The anger and defiance had vanished, and she was now eyeing him with a wary curiosity. She would listen, now, he knew. Pleased, he approached her again and stood over her, gazing down at her lying vulnerable at his feet.

"Decided to forgo the attack?" he asked.

"For now," she replied tersely, the warning clear in her voice.

"Good." Behind his mask a satisfied grin ghosted across Kroenen's scarred features. "Now that I have your undivided attention…"

Author's Notes: Ahhh! Cliffhanger! What will happen to Erica? What will Luke and Brittany do? Also, if anyone's interested, I now have a deviantart website under the name FlyingFish15, and I have posted some fanart for my story there. Please review!


	17. A Running Leap into the Dark

**Chapter 17: A Running Leap into the Dark**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Luke, Brittany, and the plot that isn't from the movie belong to me.

Author's Notes: Hello all! Thanks again to my reviewers! And so the many twists and turns continue: Kroenen and Erica have their own issues to deal with, the werewolves provide some humor, and I've thrown in some dark romance and a plot twist—an unexpected meeting that's been far too long in the making. Enjoy the chapter!

Note: In the interest of posting this chapter as soon as I could, I'm going to skip replying to everyone that reviewed. Again, I thank you all for reviewing!

"Hate cannot run out hate, only love can do that."—Martin Luther King

"He who forgives ends the quarrel."—African Proverb

"Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love."—George Eliot

_Abandoned Subway Area_

_Orphanage Basement_

"This is _not_ good," Luke said to no one in particular. The blond woman, whom he assumed must be the same one Erica and Abe had referred to as Ilsa, still had the gun pressed against the slack side of his face.

"Really, now?" Ilsa asked sarcastically.

"Hey, it's just an observation," he said, shrugging. Ilsa smiled cruelly at him and pushed the muzzle of the gun against his cheekbone so hard he was sure it would leave a perfect, circular bruise. The woman was clearly enjoying the power she was holding over him.

And then Brittany lunged for her.

_BAM!_

The sound of gunfire reverberated through the underground, followed by the thud of bodies hitting the floor. Luke, every muscle in his body tense, waited for the explosion of pain in his skull, but it didn't come— instead there was a high-pitched whistle as the bullet sped past his ear. Instantly his eyes flew open and were met by the sight of Brittany wrestling with Ilsa, rolling over and over the floor. Blood was already streaking the ground: Brittany had sunk her claw-like nails deep into Ilsa's right wrist in an effort to force the muzzle of the gun away from herself. Luke thrust the handgun he was holding into his jacket pocket and then threw himself into the fray with an animalistic snarl, his claws reaching to tear out Ilsa's throat.

They rolled over and over and over, the world spinning around them until Luke was completely disoriented, but it didn't matter because he was fighting for his life, his entire being focused on wresting the gun from Ilsa's grasp. Beside him Brittany shrieked as their tumbling ran her into the corner of the rotten wooden stairs; a moment later Ilsa directed a vicious kick at Brittany and the girl went flying.

Luke redoubled his efforts; he grabbed Ilsa's right arm and one of her shoulders and tried to pin her to the floor. To his surprise it didn't work; the woman was unnaturally strong for her size—he yelped sharply and leapt back as Ilsa drove something sharp into the outside of his thigh. Kneeling on all fours, he looked down and saw a long, jagged cut. Nearby Ilsa scrambled to her feet holding a bloody dagger in her left hand. She smiled with sadistic pleasure as she raised the gun again—

BAM!

Luke ducked and scrambled to the side; behind him he heard the bullet smash into the tile floor and ricochet. Angry now, Luke leapt for the wall and, digging his claws into the plaster, he scaled it.

_BAM!_

A bullet blew an enormous hole in the plaster where his shoulder had been the moment before; razor-sharp pieces of rubble hit Luke in the face and white dust clouded the air. Luke coughed violently, choking as he inhaled the dust, and kicked a hole in the plaster to form a secure foothold before he thrust his hand into his pocket and withdrew the handgun; he turned to look over his shoulder and returned fire. Ilsa ducked and Luke shoved the gun into his belt and climbed higher, his heart thundering, dreading that he would hear another gunshot at any moment. Instead Ilsa's furious shout came from below him.

"_OW! You little BITCH!_"

Luke glanced down. Brittany, her face set with determination, was gripping a long, broken metal pole she had found among the debris littering the room. The broken end of the pole was jagged—and covered in blood. Across from Brittany stood Ilsa, a shaking hand held to a deep gash that ran from her ear to her chin.

"Hey, nice one!" Luke called approvingly to Brittany; she smiled slightly, encouraged.

Ilsa's face contorted with rage and she raised the gun again—Brittany slammed the metal pole against Ilsa's knuckles with a sharp CRACK! The gun spun away to land in a corner of the room.

"Run, Brittany!" Luke yelled. He was now hanging from the exposed beams and pipes of the ceiling, his feet planted firmly against the wall he had just climbed. "Run _NOW!_"

Brittany's head jerked up to look at him—

"_Look out!_" shouted Luke.

Metal shrieked as Ilsa's bloody dagger scraped against Brittany's pole, heading straight for the girl's hands. Brittany hurriedly stepped back and without thinking she swung the pole, whipping it into Ilsa's stomach with a sound like a hammer hitting a side of meat. Ilsa stumbled, gasping as Brittany ran for the tunnel exit to the room and Luke tensed, his muscles coiling to spring—he pushed off the wall, propelling himself through the air. He slammed violently into Ilsa, bowling her over so hard they both crashed into the far wall. Stars burst before Luke's eyes but he threw himself at the blond woman—and screamed as something cold and sharp stabbed into his side, slicing through skin and sliding between bone. He staggered back in shock, his hands gripping the dagger protruding from his ribs.

Ilsa laughed. Stood there and laughed at him, her blue eyes as cold as ice as she gazed at him, her perfect lips curled into a cruel smile.

Brittany stood in the tunnel entrance, her mouth hanging open as she stared at Luke with horror.

"Hey, it's not that bad," Luke lied, forcing a toothy smile to cover up his grimace. "Honestly! It doesn't even hurt!"

Brittany eyed him uncertainly. Ilsa was now staring at him with disbelief.

"You are either insane or very stupid," Ilsa said with obvious revulsion.

"Some of both, I think," Luke admitted, wincing as he pulled the dagger from his ribs and threw it aside. "For instance, I probably should have had a doctor do that. But you don't appear to have hit anything important—better luck next time." And he winked cockily at her.

Brittany grinned. _This is one of the many reasons I love him,_ she thought, smiling.

"Now, Ilsa, you've made a very bad mistake," Luke said patronizingly, taking a few slow, measured steps towards the blond woman. She held her ground, her icy eyes boring into his honey brown ones. Luke continued, "It's two against one, and you've lost all your weapons." He grinned widely at her, showing off his rows of sharp, wolf-like teeth. Brittany had to admit the effect was certainly unnerving. But perhaps what was even more unnerving was that Ilsa looked completely unfazed.

_Not good,_ Brittany decided, her smile fading fast as she noticed that Ilsa's fingers were subtly reaching for something behind her, hanging from her belt. "Luke—!" she yelled in warning.

But Ilsa had already whipped out the sledgehammer and whirled its heavy square head at Luke's injured side with what would have been bone-crushing force had the werewolf not jumped backwards in the nick of time. Instead the hammer crashed into the floor, splintering the tile and sending porcelain shrapnel in all directions. Ilsa snarled in frustration and started to swing the hammer again—

THUD.

Luke's hands connected with the long shaft and wrapped around it, holding it still. He tugged sharply, trying to pull it away, but Ilsa had anticipated the move and held on all the tighter with her unnatural strength. Seeing there was no way he would succeed in pulling it from her grasp, Luke instead tightened his grip and then swung the hammer, turning as fast as he could. The hammer's momentum dragged Ilsa off balance and she smashed into the rotten wooden stairs, which promptly collapsed on top of her.

"I think this is our cue to get out of here," Luke observed as Ilsa's enraged shrieks issued from the pile of splintered debris. Brittany nodded in agreement and they ran into the tunnel and kept running, spurred on by the sounds of crashing wood and curses as Ilsa extricated herself from the ruins of the stairs.

XXXXX

_Abandoned Subway Area_

_Furnace Room_

"Decided to forgo the attack?" the clockwork assassin asked.

"For now," Erica replied tersely, the warning clear in her voice.

"Good." A satisfied grin ghosted across Kroenen's scarred features. "Now that I have your undivided attention…"

The assassin reached down and heaved the rusty metal lockers off of Erica, shifted them to the side, and then let them fall to the floor again with a crash. Eyeing him warily, Erica stood and backed away until she felt there was a relatively safe distance between them. Her hands twitched at her sides and she cast a longing glance at the locked desk drawer; clearly she wanted her weapons.

"You may have them back once I'm finished," Kroenen said. "Otherwise I think they would prove to be a distraction; you cannot truly be listening to me if your focus is on gutting me. And you already know you have no hope of overpowering me if you try fighting me hand to hand, so I suggest you resign yourself to sitting still. "

He gestured to the chair beside his desk. Erica's grey eyes flicked to it and then back to him. She knew his suggestion had really been a command thinly veiled in politeness. Keeping both eyes focused on him she cautiously walked past him and, after inspecting the chair, gingerly sat down on the edge of it as if such an action would allow her to spring upright faster at the first sign of danger. For lack of anything else to do with her hands she gripped at her knees, her knuckles white.

Kroenen moved so he was standing directly across from her, though he made sure to stop his approach when he saw her body tense. His back was to the furnace; his black shadow stretched across the floor in front of him and ended just before Erica's boots.

"Where should I begin?" Kroenen murmured, more to himself than to his unwilling guest.

"The beginning?" Erica suggested tensely. There was defiance and anger in her voice. "What this is all about? Why you've supposedly taken a break from making my life a living hell?"

Kroenen smiled at her insolence and nodded slowly. "Ja, ja. The beginning it is then…all the way back…" He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. "As you are well aware, as a traitor, you have a debt to me."

"And what debt is that?" she asked, feigning ignorance. Her eyes had narrowed.

"I have been told you owe me blood—your life. But I do not agree."

"No?"

"No," he repeated quietly. "I would be most satisfied…with your forgiveness."

Erica stared at him.

"_What?_" Her voice was barely a whisper.

"My conduct has been inexcusable," Kroenen explained. "It was not until last night that I realized what I was doing: because of my anger and hate, I was on the brink of destroying the only person I've ever cared about."

She gaped at him, shocked. Then doubt began to enter her eyes and Kroenen quickly continued before she could question him, "After October 9, 1944, I wanted revenge as badly as I wanted the Ogdru Jahad to be released, perhaps even more so. In my rage I wanted nothing more than to kill you the moment I found you….at least until recently, when I realized it was now actually possible that it would happen—when I realized that my Angel _still exists_…" He paused for emphasis, gazing at her, and then continued, his voice softer, confiding. "It was so much easier to hate you when you were far away," he admitted, "when the closest visual of you was my memories, clouded by anger and pain, and an unchanging, faded photograph. But when we were in the alleys last night and I saw your face as you were fighting for your life, and you told me you _did not hate me_…I knew I could not kill you, would never be able to…I knew you had not become a traitor just to hurt me…I understand…I forgive you…I want to give you a chance…I want to give us both a chance, even if I must become a traitor to do so…."

He trailed off. There was a stunned silence as they both took in this sudden outpouring of his inner thoughts. Kroenen felt strangely empty, but in a good, unburdened way; the tension was gone and it was a relief. He had never been so sincere in his life and was pleased to see that Erica had realized this, had felt it through their blood bond: all the defiance and fear was gone from her face. Her expression had softened. There was sympathy in her eyes.

They had finally reached an understanding.

The furnace flames roared dully in the background. Kroenen took a few steps forward; this time Erica made no move to escape.

"My attempts to kill you are unforgivable, and yet, knowing this, I still ask it of you," Kroenen said quietly into the hushed silence. "Can you? No, of course you can…but will you? Will you?"

Erica watched him; her grey eyes glinted more than usual at the corners, as if she was holding back tears. But she did not look sad or frightened.

"Yes," she whispered, "Yes. I forgive you."

A wave of happy warmth surged through the assassin and, buoyed up by it, he approached Erica slowly, gracefully, not wanting to destroy the moment, the perfect, indescribable emotion that hung in the air between them so that nothing seemed to move and the walls themselves seemed to hold their breath. Erica's eyes were an intense shade of grey he had never seen before; he could see his reflection in them, backed by flames. Slowly, he stopped in front of her chair, and then, just as slowly, he bent at the waist, making an elegant bow.

"_Danke_, Angel," he breathed. He offered her his hand.

Erica hesitated for a moment, and then slid her hand into his. Her pale skin was a sharp contrast against his black leather glove. He gently pulled her to her feet. She gazed up at him, directly into the lenses of his mask, and, at long last, there was no trace of fear in her eyes.

Understanding. How perfectly, flawlessly wonderful it was.

XXXXX

_Abandoned Subway Area_

"Where exactly are we going?" Brittany asked as she and Luke raced through a tunnel, splashing through water and tripping over fallen bricks and chunks of masonry. Steam gushed from a pipe set into the floor. "Back to the shower room?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead, to be honest," Luke replied. His long black hair had fallen out of his loose ponytail over the course of the fight and roughly half of it was wet and hanging in long, dripping strands. He and Brittany were bruised and bleeding: Luke's face was covered in cuts from the pieces of shrapnel created when Ilsa's bullet had slammed into the wall, and Brittany's arms, neck, and cheek were covered in long red scratches from the woman's fingernails.

Their running brought them to a point where the tunnels intersected and they stopped to catch their breath, their chests heaving. Luke winced and grabbed at his injured side as he took a particularly deep breath; his hand came away stained with blood.

"Damn it," he hissed, gazing at the stab wound. "Deeper than I thought it was. So, where are we?"

Brittany looked around, trying to find a landmark she could recognize; they had been running with no consideration for direction, and the last thing she wanted to do was become lost in the labyrinth of passages under New York. At first she saw nothing familiar, but then, as she peered into the darkness, her hopes rose: at the far end of one tunnel she could see the black and white tile floor of the room beside the shower room. She gestured at the tunnel, pointing it out to Luke, who was taking the opportunity to squeeze the excess water out of his hair.

"Maybe we should try to find the others," Brittany suggested, emboldened by her success at fighting Ilsa.

"That would be a good idea if there weren't Hell Hounds prowling around, not to mention an assassin," Luke pointed out, swinging his hair back over his shoulder. "We've had enough trouble with Ilsa, and there are _two_ of us."

_BAM!_

A bullet buried itself in the wall mere inches from Brittany's head. She spun around, her heart hammering in her throat at the near miss. Ilsa, covered in splinters and with her cheek still bleeding, materialized from the shadows of a sheltered side passage; clearly she knew her way through the tunnels. She looked absolutely livid that she had just missed such an easy target.

_Apparently she found her gun,_ Brittany thought.

"What is it with this woman?!" Luke exclaimed as he pulled the gun from his belt and shot back. The shot went wide and the bullet plowed into the dirty water near Ilsa's feet, drenching her. She let out a stream of vehement curses as she clawed at her eyes, trying to clear them, but Luke and Brittany didn't hear her—they were already gone, running as fast as they could. Hoping to throw Ilsa off they turned right, then left, then right and kept running straight. Brittany was just thinking that the passage looked oddly familiar when they stumbled out of the tunnel and right into a dead end.

They were back in the basement of the orphanage. And with the stairs gone the only entrance was the one they had just come through.

"Okay, now would be a _really_ good time to have a plan!" Brittany said. Because of her werewolf enhanced hearing she could already hear Ilsa's approaching footsteps.

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking!" said Luke. "I could always shoot at her. She has to come straight down that tunnel, and there isn't any cover…and she probably only has two bullets left in her gun…"

"What do you mean 'probably'?"

"If it only had six; she's shot at us four times. But then again, it could have had eight, in which case she has four…but I only have four shots left, and I don't exactly have such a great aim since I don't have consistent muscular control over my one eye…" he gestured to the slack side of his face.

"We could try climbing," said Brittany, pointing to the hole in the ceiling that the stairs had led to. Broken boards that had been sturdier than the rest of the stairs were still jutting down from it at odd angles, the rusty nails stubbornly holding on.

Luke looked doubtful. "Judging by the stairs it'll be a miracle if the floor above us holds. And Ilsa is too close now for both of us to make it; the ceiling's at least ten feet high…"

With Ilsa's footsteps now echoing in the tunnel beyond, Brittany knew they had only a matter of minutes before she appeared. They had to come up with something _now_—Brittany had no desire to find out what it would be like to be struck by a silver bullet—but her growing panic seemed to be obstructing any ideas. In a gesture of frustration Brittany slammed her arms down against her sides—and her hand hit a slight bulge in the pocket of her jeans. The Greek fire!

The beginning of an idea forming, she scanned the room for anything else that could be of help and spotted a manhole cover. She bent down to inspect it; the sound of water came from below.

"Luke! Help me move this! Quick!"

"Wha—?"

"Just do it!"

With a questioning look on his face, Luke stood opposite Brittany and set his claws around the edge of the cover.

"On the count of three…one, two, three!"

They heaved, but even their combined strength, enhanced by their lycanthropy, was not enough to move it more than an inch to the side. A draft of cold, moist air breathed up through the crack as though to tease her.

"We need something…a crowbar…" Brittany muttered. The boards from the collapsed stairs? No, they were all rotten…She spotted the metal pole she had hit Ilsa with and then dropped the last time they had run from the room. Seizing it, she pushed one end into the dark crack between the cover and the circular rim of the hole. Luke moved in beside her and they pushed down on the pole together. The cover slid to the side with a rough metallic sound as the underside grated against the floor.

XXXXX

_Abandoned Subway Area_

Ilsa stalked down the tunnel, her steps slow and measured, her gun raised. The orphanage basement ahead seemed empty, but she knew better; the werewolves had to have come this way, inadvertently trapping themselves. _How convenient_, she thought. She had two bullets left, and judging by the male's incompetence with his own firearm she would have no trouble killing them both.

She hovered cautiously at the entrance to the basement, her gaze sweeping the room. She didn't see either of the werewolves, but she could hear them panting from their run. Perhaps they were hiding, cowering behind the pile of boards from the collapsed stairs. Ilsa smiled cruelly. What a delicious idea.

She took one step into the room, then another, and another, walking silently. She reached the center of the room and, intent on the pile of debris concealing her targets, obliviously stepped over a manhole cover lying on the floor. Then a small pebble dropped from the ceiling and hit her shoulder.

_A pebble?_ Ilsa thought. She glanced up. And her jaw dropped. The male werewolf was clinging to the ceiling, facing her, his hands wrapped around one of the many rusty pipes.

"Hello," he said, winking. And then he swung down, kicking his feet out at her; they collided with her torso and Ilsa screamed as she toppled backwards, her feet slipping on the wet tile floor, which vanished suddenly from beneath her. She screamed louder as she plunged downwards and into shockingly cold water, her momentum carrying her deeper. Ilsa frantically clawed her way upwards and as her head broke the surface she gasped for air. Quickly she latched onto the rim of the hole and glared across the room at her enemies, who were now standing on the floor and grinning at her.

"I'd be getting out of there, if I were you," the girl said smugly.

Ilsa snarled and began to pull herself out of the water—the girl hurled something that looked like a smooth black grenade and it skittered across the tiles, stopping a few feet from the hole. Ilsa's stomach clenched and for a moment she was frozen by horror.

"_RUN!_" the girl shouted, grabbing the arm of her companion and dragging him into the tunnel.

Her words moved Ilsa into action; she ducked back into the water and swam downwards—

BOOM!

The sound of the explosion was muffled by the water, but it still left her ears ringing painfully. Strangely, no chunks of the floor—now her ceiling—fell down into the water as she had expected. Needing to breathe, Ilsa cautiously surfaced, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes. The sight that met her was bizarre: instead of blowing everything to bits the grenade had hurled fire and some sort of thick fluid all over the place. The flames were already very tall, and, oddly, seemed to be burning brightest and hottest where they came in contact with things that were wet, like the collapsed staircase and a book of nursery rhymes. Ilsa pulled herself from the water, struggling out onto the floor and coughing violently as she inhaled smoke. When she looked up again she saw that the flames had become an inferno; they were blocking the only exit and were _following the water that streaked the floor_.

"What the hell?!" She quickly scrambled to her feet.

It was true; the flames flared brighter and hotter as they hit the water—and she was drenched and standing in a spreading puddle.

_Scheiße_, she thought, her eyes wide.

XXXXX

_Abandoned Subway Area_

_Underwater Chamber_

Abe's back was pressed up against the rough concrete walls protecting him from the Sammaels, his webbed hands clutched over the wounds torn into his chest by the Hell Hounds' raking claws. His dark blue blood hovered in the water like smoke. The gashes were deep and throbbed painfully, burning and stinging as the filthy water hit his exposed flesh.

He knew he had to get out of there. He was losing blood, and fast. If he waited much longer, he wouldn't have the strength to swim to the surface. Cautiously, Abe pushed away from the wall and began to swim to the entrance of his hiding spot. He gasped in pain; as he moved his arms to pull himself through the water the wounds on his chest sent white-hot screaming bolts of agony through him in protest. It felt like he was being stabbed in the chest with every stroke he swam.

Slowly, painfully, he made it to the end. He peered out, his eyes scanning in all directions, including above and below. It was clear; the Sammaels were nowhere in sight.

As quickly as he could he kicked away and swam for the surface, propelling himself with his legs as much as he could to prevent moving his arms more than was absolutely necessary. His gaze locked on the circle of light above him that marked the hole in the floor of the shower room and hope and energy surged through him—he was almost there!

He was no more than a few yards from the surface when he felt a rolling sonic shock run through the water.

_An explosion,_ Abe thought, pausing for the briefest of seconds. Though the sonic shock had been faint, muted by its travels through the walls and the density of the water, he knew its source was relatively close. Were the werewolves or members of the BPRD team nearby, fighting the Sammaels?

His thoughts were interrupted by a pressure wave of water, coming up from below him. Abe's blood turned to ice as he looked down, past his blue webbed feet. Two more Sammaels had hatched—one of the Hell Hounds had been killed. The two dime-sized monsters were rapidly increasing in size; they were already the size of large dogs and getting bigger as they spiraled up through the water, their tentacles twitching and their eyes rolling crazily as they swam up—right towards him.

Terrified, Abe swam through the water as fast as he could, ignoring the pain that seared through his chest. Before it had registered in his brain that he had reached the surface his hands had grasped the rim and he had pulled himself out of the water and collapsed on the tiles.

To his dismay he found the room devoid of any of his team members, but mercifully it was empty of Sammaels.

_Not for long,_ Abe thought. Behind him the water bubbled ominously, pushed up as the Hell Hounds neared the surface. He struggled onto his knees and half crawled, half dragged himself over the floor, leaving dark blue smears of blood on the dirty tiles. He curled up inside a rust-streaked shower stall, flatting himself against the wall and praying he would not be seen as the pair of monsters emerged from the cistern, splashing water in all directions as they shook themselves off like giant dogs.

Trembling with exhaustion, Abe pushed the blue light on his locator with an unsteady hand. He hoped the other agents weren't out of range; he couldn't hear anyone nearby over the noise of the two Sammaels. Where had everyone gone? Where were Erica and her sister?

XXXXX

_Abandoned Subway Area_

_Furnace Room_

Erica gazed up at Kroenen's black metal mask; instead of inspiring terror in her, now she felt only wonder. How could it be that the man that had threatened to cut off her hand last night was now the man standing before her, holding her hand so gently in his own? There was nothing about the clockwork assassin that so much as hinted at danger, and as he gazed down at her everything about him implored "_trust me, believe me_…_please_".

And she did. She couldn't help it: Kroenen's confession was a surprise beyond comprehension, but she knew it was the truth. She could _feel_ it; because of their blood bond she felt it intensely—there was nothing of lies or deceit in what he had told her. One couldn't say those things with that emotion and lie.

Actually, as she thought about it, there was something in his strength of emotion that faintly disturbed her, like there was something he was keeping from her, something he wasn't admitting; the reason behind his sudden change of heart.

His words from last night echoed in her mind: _"__All I want is to talk to you. You made me realize something wonderful. An __epiphany__, if you like."_

What was it he had realized? What thought was powerful enough to stop an enraged, murderous Kroenen in his tracks? She was half afraid to know what it was; she had the feeling that once she knew something would change, and there would be no undoing it.

She gazed up at Kroenen, at the ghostly reflection of the furnace flames and her own face in his mask's black, polished surface. The silence of the room was thick with unnamable emotion and tension, as though it, like her, was hesitating on the brink of something that she wasn't sure she wanted to discover.

"Why?" Erica whispered. "Why can't you kill me, Kroenen? It's not just because we were—are—friends, is it?"

The assassin was silent for a while, clearly contemplating his answer. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet. "I wanted to destroy you, thinking it would end my pain. But I know now that it would only prolong it. In destroying you, I would destroy myself."Erica studied him, wondering at the emotion in his voice. What was it? And why did it remind her of Abe, and yet, was nothing like the fish-man could ever express, having far too dark and forceful a quality to it?

"Why would it destroy you?"

The assassin didn't answer immediately; he raised his free hand and cupped her cheek with it, just barely touching her skin. "_Because… you…are…my…Angel_," he replied softly.

Erica stared at him, her lips parted in shock. There was so much more passion behind those words than she had ever heard from him— or anyone— before and it was both thrilling and frightening her. He couldn't possibly mean what he seemed to be telling her, because if what she thought he meant was _true_—! Yes, in the past, they had been close friends, he had been insanely dedicated to her in his teaching, had murdered men in fits of jealous rage, and his attachment to her had been well within the realm of obsession, but _this_…!

She wasn't sure how to respond: to embrace him, or doubt him, or smile, or cry in fear or joy or just because she didn't know what else to do. Instead she looked away, gazing unseeingly at the floor.

"No…" she said softly, her voice barely audible. She wasn't even conscious of what she had said, or why.

"_Yes_," he murmured, drawing out the word as though it were a lullaby. He wrapped his arms around her in an embrace; that she was too confused to pull away or return it did not deter him, and if anything seemed to encourage him. "Yes, I'm telling the truth. Is it so hard to believe?" Kroenen asked, turning her face back to him with a gentle finger.

"That you…?" she stopped, hesitating, as though afraid to be the one to say it, to make it true.

"Ja," he said, and, pulling her closer, he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "_I…love…you._"

Erica gazed at him with astonishment, her beautiful grey eyes wide, but her expression was all too quickly replaced by uncertainty and turmoil as emotions warred across her face. Kroenen felt a surge of hope; there was a chance, then, that she might accept, might want him in return; uncertainty was a far cry from outright rejection.

"You may doubt me, I understand. I doubted it myself. I have denied it for more than sixty years. But no longer….no longer…I _love_ you, Angel," he said, slowly trailing a hand down her face, tracing the scar on her cheek with his thumb. "If only you knew how much…"

He trailed off, dropping his hand from her face and moving away, turning his back to her as he went over to the phonograph and dropped the pin onto the record. There was a brief scratching, static sound from the contraption and then music was pouring from it, echoing hauntingly off the walls.

"Do you remember when I first taught you to dance?" he asked, turning back to her.

"Ja," she said softly. Her response was more automatic than anything that had real thought behind it.

"Good," he said, pleased. He approached her and made a melodramatic, elegant bow and then extended a hand to her. "May I have this dance, Angel?"

A hesitant, unconscious smile crossed her face, no doubt spurred by his antics. "I don't know, should I let you?"

"I would say you have no choice," the assassin replied, smiling; and though he knew she could not see it, he knew she could hear it in his voice. He took her hand and pulled her close to him, sliding an arm around her waist and holding her for a few moments, taking pleasure in being so close to her. And then, following the music, he gracefully spun her around the room, her leather trench coat flaring out around her legs as they whirled around.

XXXXX

_Abandoned Subway Area_

_Shower Room_

Abe was losing hope of being found almost as fast as he was losing blood. No one had responded to his locator belt's distress signal; no one had answered his attempts to radio the BPRD's agents.

_Everyone must be out of range,_ Abe thought. _Or dead,_ muttered an unpleasant voice in the back of his head. He ignored it. There was no way it could be true, _no way…_

At least the Sammaels had left, so he wasn't in any immediate danger of being eaten alive. But he was very worried about his injuries; he pressed a webbed hand to the painful, throbbing gashes on his chest to stem the slow but steady ooze of blood. His heart was working overtime, struggling to pump what blood remained in his veins, and that blood was slowly becoming less and less. He needed to get to a hospital, or, barring that, someone that had at least _some_ medical knowledge and a first aid kit. But none of the agents were answering, and he had no hope of dragging himself to safety in his weakened state.

He fumbled with the earphone, holding it in his free hand so he could try it once more. Nothing. Only static. _Still_ out of range.

"Damn," Abe cursed quietly, dropping his hand to his lap. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the tile wall, resting. He sat in silence for several moments, his gills fluttering as he breathed.

_Maybe the agents are still close enough that I can call to them mentally,_ he thought. _Yes, that should work. They couldn't have gone too far; it's just that our radio signals are scrambled by something down here…_

He concentrated, opening his mind, reaching farther, farther, out into the passageways and hidden rooms, mentally calling his friends' names as loud as he could.

_Hellboy_…_Erica_…_Clay_…_Anybody there? Can you hear me? Erica? Hellb—_

Abe paused, feeling a slight, far away response. Well, not a _response_—the agent hadn't answered, wasn't aware of him yet—but a _presence_. And from the feel of it, it was Erica.

Abe smiled. Now he was getting somewhere. Mentally he reached out, following Erica's vague, elusive mental presence. Slowly it strengthened, until he was almost sure she would hear him this time. But just to make sure, he broadcast his thoughts to a wider, more generalized area around where he thought she was.

_Erica, it's Abe. I'm safe, but I'm hurt. Can you hear me? I need your help…_

XXXXX

_Abandoned Subway Area_

_Furnace Room_

Kroenen paused mid-step. There was a tickle in the back of his mind; from experience he knew it was the forerunner of a mental message being broadcast towards the general area. Out of habit the assassin automatically blocked it, sort of…_freezing_ it, before whatever the message contained could fully reach him or Erica. Cautiously, he lowered some of his mental shielding and let the message through so only he could hear it—and he just barely stopped himself from snarling out loud.

It was Abe.

_HOW _DARE _HE INTERRUPT US?!_ Kroenen thought furiously, clenching his teeth together so hard that it hurt. White-hot jealousy writhed and thrashed inside him, tearing at the assassin's innards; jealousy burning a million times hotter than the envy that had caused him to murder Leonard so many, many decades ago. He would destroy that fish for his impudence, rip out his guts and—!

"Kroenen?" Erica asked quietly, her brow furrowed with concern. "What's wrong?"

Only then did Kroenen notice that his hands were shaking. Quickly he forced himself to control his body and emotions, biting back the myriad of blasphemies he wanted to spew forth at the fish-man.

"Nothing, my Angel," he said softly, reassuringly. Possessively, he tightened his grip on her waist, pulling her closer so he could run his fingers through her beautiful chestnut hair, shining red in the firelight. The calming gesture appeared to soothe any doubts she might have had—though she had no reason not to believe him; Kroenen had blocked Abe's message from ever reaching her—and she relaxed, just a little, into his embrace, almost exactly the same way she had decades ago.

As the assassin held her, enjoying the moment of closeness, a cunning anger was also seething within him; calculating, planning, his thoughts turning like the record playing on the phonograph. A wicked grin ghosted across his scarred face. So the fish-man wanted to contact Erica? Was hurt and needed her help? Kroenen would make sure Abe never succeeded. The fish-man could mentally call her name as much as he wanted, but she would never hear him. And should Abe wonder why she wasn't answering, and mentally visit the furnace room, what a sight he would see: Erica, in Kroenen's arms! Let the fish-man think she was in danger of being brutally murdered! Or, even better, let the fish-man overhear _every word_ and burn with jealousy!

Or, best of all, let him bleed to death, calling in vain for Erica to help him.

Kroenen's sadistic grin widened as he took a vicious pleasure in that thought. Yes, that was perfect. Erica would never know that he had been vaguely implicated in Abe's death. The fish-man would just fade away, and when he was found by the BPRD's agents they would naturally assume that, unable to contact any of the agents for medical attention, he had died shortly after being attacked by the Sammaels. A tragic accident, but one that Kroenen was more than happy to live with.

"No, nothing is wrong," he murmured in her ear. "Everything is…_perfect_."

And in the background the music rose.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the tangled labyrinth of underground passages dripping with water, Abe was slumped against a tile wall. He was deeply worried.

_Erica should have answered me a long time ago, _he thought. _I know that's her. It couldn't be anyone else…_

Perhaps he wasn't concentrating properly, was weakened more than he had thought by his injuries. He tried again, reaching out to her, knowing her mind, her presence was just beyond his grasp—Nothing. No response. He reached further, insistently. This time he got something, but it made his stomach plummet with dismay: Blackness. Emptiness. A void where Erica should have been. The kind of barren blankness found in the minds of the dead.

_No_, Abe thought numbly. _No, she can't be dead, she _can't_ be_…

He needed to see where she was. _NOW_. He focused himself completely, and then, like the night before at the Machen Library, when he had used the same technique to see that Erica was running through the alleys, pursued by Kroenen, Abe was no longer in the shower room. For a brief millisecond he was mentally rocketing through a flurry of blurred, jumbled images: running along corridors, moving impossibly through walls like a ghost, ducking pipes, rushing through hissing clouds of steam—he came to an abrupt, stomach-wrenching halt in a small room, its inside alive with shadows and fire. The constant movement was bewildering and made it difficult for him to discern what he seeing; his surroundings were already distorted and blurred because he was seeing with his mind.

_Where is she?_ Abe thought frantically, shifting his gaze as his heart pounded in his ears like thunder. And then, a movement among the shadows and he saw her, the hellish light of the furnaces playing over her pale face. Abe breathed a sigh of immense relief. Erica was okay, she was alive, she was safe—

The light shifted and he saw his relief had been premature: Erica was not alone— she was trapped in Kroenen's grasp!

_ERICA! _Abe mentally yelled, horrified. His horror intensified when she didn't answer, when his thoughts slammed into that blackness where her mind should have been. Why couldn't she hear him? What was happening? He had to help her; Kroenen would kill her!

But…something was wrong here…Erica looked far from terrified…conflicted, yes, but _not_ afraid…she _wasn't_ _trying to escape_…

For Erica, everything was steadily becoming more and more surreal. Her mind was on overload, frozen on one thought: Kroenen _loved_ her. _He_ loved _her_.

She was so caught up, so focused on that one shocking thought that she was only numbly aware of what was going on around her, and when the assassin took her hand again and wrapped an arm about her waist she allowed him to sweep her around the room in a graceful waltz. Kroenen _loved_ her. He loved her. He loved her. And so did Abe. Now what in God's name was she going to do?

"What are you thinking, Angel?"

She knew it would do her no good to lie; Kroenen had always had an uncanny ability to detect falsehoods. But still, she struggled to speak, trying to find the words to express the turmoil inside her. It was difficult, so complicated… Erica closed her eyes in a futile hope that blocking out her surroundings would help her focus on her thoughts, but she could still feel her feet moving across the floor, dance step by dance step, one after the other; could feel the dizzying sensation of spinning with her eyes closed, through the darkness behind her eyelids, and on top of it was an equally dizzying succession of memories and tangled emotions:

—_The Machen Library. She looked up at Abe, encircled by his arms; she felt safe for the first time since she had seen Kroenen in the alleys, perched above her on a fire escape like a nightmarish panther about to move in for the kill._

"_He's tried to kill you at least twice," the fish-man reminded her. "Whatever it seemed to be, it was a trick; he hates you. But you're safe now; I won't let anything happen to you. I love you," Abe said, and kissed her on the cheek. She laughed and smiled up at him_—

—_Sixty years ago,__the ruins of Trondham Abbey. It was one o'clock in the morning, and it was still raining. A young Professor Broom sat across from her on a wooden crate; she was lying on the floor, her skin covered in bandages and even more bruises. The Professor wanted to inspect her necklace—a silver watch pendent—wanted to see if there was any evil clinging to it. But she wouldn't give it to him; she refused to! Kroenen had given it to her, and now that she had betrayed him and he was gone, she refused to part with it._

"_Is it so precious to you, a gift from the man you betrayed?" the Professor asked._

"_In a strange way, yes, it is. I don't know why…" __She looked down at the watch sadly, turning it over in her fingers so that Kroenen's initials, engraved into the back, glinted in the dim light. She knew what she would say next, and, in a distant way, she was amazed __that she felt so comfortable revealing it to someone that had been an enemy when she had never told Kroenen.__ "In a way, I love this clock and hate it, just like the man that gave it to me."_

Erica felt a jolt in her stomach like she had been kicked by a horse. Sixty years ago she had outright admitted that she loved Kroenen. But had she meant more than friendship? Had it been more than a result of the pain and depression of losing everything she knew? And then there was Abe; he had told her he loved her. But she had never said it in return, wasn't sure, now, if she felt the same. Could she love Abe when she had admitted to loving Kroenen? Had she, in the last sixty years, ever stopped loving him? Or had it just been hidden from her by her fear?

She didn't know, she just _didn't know!_

Erica opened her eyes. Her surroundings felt more dreamlike than they had before; hellish fire and shadows all around her, whirling past in a dance, mirroring her and Kroenen.

"You said you love me…"

"And?"

It was taking an enormous effort for her to continue; she didn't know if it was words, or her own courage, that were failing her now. "I…I'm not sure if I…I can't decide if…if…"

"If you love me in return?"

"Yes," she whispered, biting at her lower lip.

Kroenen brought the dance to a gentle stop; her trench coat brushed against her legs, swishing against them now that she was standing still. The assassin gazed down at her so intensely that Erica was sure he was staring into her, seeing her soul and reading every precious thought. He leaned down so they were eye to eye, his mask mere inches from her face, his breath ghosting over her skin.

"Take as long as you like to decide," he murmured. "As long as you like. I have eternity to wait for an answer. But regardless of what you decide, I _will_ save you. I will _not_ let them sacrifice you. And, know this," he said, his voice so soft that had he not been a hairsbreadth away she would never have heard him, "I have become a traitor for you. I will kill for you without question. I will die for you to keep you from harm. And I will never, _ever _leave you, unless you wish it. You don't have to love me, but, when we have succeeded…will you return to me?"

"Return…?"

"Come away with me. It doesn't have to be for forever, just a little while. To catch up, for old time's sake?"

Mentally watching the scene from across the room, Abe was truly scared for Erica. What he had overheard…! It had to be a trap. Kroenen could _not_ be telling the truth. He just couldn't! There was no way in hell the assassin could love Erica. Abe had no idea how Kroenen had managed to convince her—probably through exploiting her memories of their friendship—and he didn't care. What mattered was that Erica was not trying to defend herself and was standing in the embrace of the man that had repeatedly tried to murder her. She was completely at Kroenen's mercy. And the fish-man still didn't understand why she couldn't hear him, what that empty blackness between them could be, or where it was coming from.

_I have to reach her,_ Abe thought._ I _have_ to, before it's too late._

He threw his thoughts at the empty blackness, calling her name. And this time something different happened; this time he noticed what was going on. The blackness _absorbed_ his thoughts, siphoning them away. Now Abe knew what it was: the blackness was a shield, an extension of another's mind which was blocking his every attempt to contact Erica.

_But who…?_ Abe wondered.

"_Who do you think, fish-man?" _hissed a sneering thought-voice. A man's voice with a thick German accent.

Abe knew who it was even before the blackness shifted and gained substance, the emptiness becoming infused with the assassin's personality. It was pitch black, it was cold, and above all, it was murderously angry.

"_I had hoped we would meet,"_ Kroenen snarled at him.

"_Let her go!" _Abe demanded.

Kroenen laughed. The cold triumph of it froze Abe to his core. _"She is free to go whenever she likes. She need only ask me and I will willingly comply."_

"_Liar."_

"_Not this time. I would do _anything_ for my Angel. I only regret that it is unlikely she will ever ask me to kill you," the assassin retorted. "A pity. I have such_…ideas…_ You should be flattered that I've expended so much time inventing creative and astoundingly painful ways to murder you."_

Abe shuddered._ "You're insane."_

"_Ja. But there is always some madness in love."_

The sudden desire to snap the assassin's neck surfaced in Abe's mind. He could practically see his webbed hands wrapping around the man's throat, feel black fabric rip as he dug his long ivory nails in—

"_You DO_ NOT_ love her! Or were you showing affection by attempting to _murder_ her?!"_

"_I will be showing you_ HATE _when I kill you!" _Kroenen snarled. The assassin's fury surged through the darkness, sweeping around Abe like a pounding wave of boiling water and sending him reeling madly through the gloom.

"_Does it hurt?" _Kroenen demanded. His voice and mental presence overflowed with cruelty.

"_What?"_ The question had caught Abe off-guard. Instantly he thought of his injuries; he was aware, in a vague way, of his bleeding body lying on the tiles in the shower room.

"_Does it hurt that she didn't reject me?"_ asked Kroenen, mocking him._ "That she said she wasn't sure if she loved me in return? I _know_ you were eavesdropping!"_

Abe paused, a leaden feeling in his stomach. Even if all of this was false, was nothing but a trick, Erica was considering, was actually giving _thought_ to the idea that she could possibly love this grotesque, nightmare riddled monster. How could she? The man had tried to _kill_ her! How_ could _she?

"_Painful, isn't it? I know how agonizing jealousy can be, what terrible deeds it can drive a man to commit. I have murdered men because I felt they were getting too close to her. Now what will stop me from doing the same to you? And you doubt I love her… You know nothing! NOTHING! NOW GET_ OUT_!_"

Kroenen's presence withdrew abruptly and once more Abe saw the assassin standing in the furnace room, embracing Erica. But there was a new smugness to the man's stance; an infuriating arrogant self-satisfaction as Kroenen held her, caressed her hair, her face, as if to say to Abe: _I know you're watching me, and you're helpless to stop me. How does it feel? To watch me hold her? To watch me touch her?_

"Angel…will you return to me? Just a few days?" Kroenen whispered coaxingly. "Just us, together… I only want to talk with you…That is all I ask…You know I would not be welcome at the BPRD…" The clockwork assassin leaned his forehead against hers; the smooth black metal of his mask was cool against her skin. Erica looked at the floor, biting her lip in indecision. She knew it was a loaded question, containing hints and whisperings of other actions and intentions unspoken, of murmurs in the darkness. For a moment she closed her eyes; Kroenen smelled like leather and boot polish, and far from finding the scents suffocating as she had earlier, she found them to be very appealing. But she had to focus; she had to decide…

_Say no, say no, _Abe silently urged her, hoping against hope that she would hear him, while knowing she could not. It was torture to be so utterly powerless.

"All it takes is a simple yes," Kroenen murmured. "You will be safe, I would never hurt you…Say it…Please, Angel?"

Erica slowly lifted her eyes to his mask, a smile turning up the corners of her lips and eyes. _Why not?_ she thought. _Why not take a running leap into the dark?_

"Karl, I—" she stopped, and her eyes went to the bolted doors across the room.

Kroenen had heard it too: footsteps splashing through the water in the catacomb-like tunnels outside the furnace room. One of the BPRD's agents was very close by. Suddenly Kroenen remembered his duty: he had a task to complete for Rasputin. He needed to kill one of the agents, and one had conveniently arrived just outside his door. He should go…

He jerked slightly, sensing a determined push on the mental barriers he had erected around Erica. His stomach clenched; he had been inattentive for far too long, had been distracted—Bereft of his constant support the barriers were already crumbling before the invading presence; he concentrated, tried to shore them up. But Abe was violently forcing his way through the walls, and they were falling, collapsing—

"_NO!_" Kroenen snarled; he reached out with cruel mental talons to tear at his rival.

Too late. The spell was broken. Erica shuddered in his arms, blinking in confusion as if trying to clear a thick concealing fog from her eyes. Shock, confusion, and anxiety flickered in quick succession across her face. Kroenen could only imagine what Abe was telling her.

"_No_," Kroenen said, his voice reduced to a low moan of despair. He felt helpless, so _helpless_.

Erica's brow furrowed as he gave voice to his despair; the sound drew her back into the world and she looked up at him in disbelief. And then she pulled away from him.

To his credit, Kroenen did not try to hold her; his arms fell slack at his sides as he let her go, knowing it would do more harm not to release her. Erica stared at him. The confusion and hurt in her eyes tore at his soul.

She slowly shook her head. "You—you—Abe could have _died_—" she stammered.

"We both had things that needed to be said," Kroenen replied quietly, hoping desperately that she would understand.

"But you— how—?" Erica stopped midsentence. The agent was closer; she could tell from the voice that it was Clay.

"Red? Abe? Anybody out there? Quarry?" Clay called. He was talking into his earphone and drawing nearer by the moment.

Erica stared at the bolted doors and then shot a look at Kroenen. For a moment she hesitated; a part of her wanted nothing more than to stay and talk. There was still so much that remained unsaid between them, things a part of her desperately wanted to explore. _No. I can't. Abe needs my help_, she thought. _I have to go!_

"Give me the key," she ordered, holding out her hand.

Slowly, Kroenen pulled the key from inside his shirt sleeve. He approached her, holding the key just beyond her reach, and she stepped towards him, her eyes on the key as she stretched out her hand—

Suddenly Kroenen's free hand locked around her upper arm and he pulled her close, holding her against his chest so tightly that the intricate metal designs on his chest plate dug into her skin through her tank top. Erica stared up at him in surprise, alarm flickering in her eyes.

"I'm afraid we will have to continue our conversation later, _my Angel_," Kroenen said. He had stowed the key in a pouch on his belt, out of her reach. "But do not worry; we will be seeing each other again, very soon."

The clockwork assassin knocked her out with a swift blow to the back of her head. Erica slumped and he caught her and easily picked her up, cradling her against his chest the way a child holds a beloved stuffed animal, and carried her limp body over to his desk. Erica's head lolled limply as he carefully laid her out on top of the yellowed parchment and dissembled bits of machinery. Her chestnut hair cascaded over the worm-eaten surface, the soft, silky strands tinged red by the roaring furnace fires, and somehow looking as if they _belonged_ there, snaking between the gears and spread over the pages of a demonology book like rivulets of blood.

Her face was so pale and still… _Beautiful,_ Kroenen thought. He absentmindedly trailed his fingers over the 'T' scar on her cheek; the scar tissue was highlighted a silvery red by the fire.

Then he moved to the desk, unlocked the drawer where he had placed her weapons and belt, and laid them out on the floor where she was sure to see them. As he did so, he noticed something lying on the floor, glittering. He picked it up. It was an Iron Cross—Erica's, judging by the black ribbon it hung on. It must have fallen from her pocket when he had picked her up.

_Strange that she would be carrying it around in the first place_, he thought.

On an impulse he leaned over her and tied the Iron Cross around her neck where it belonged, or had, sixty years ago.

"I like this cross much better than your silver one," he whispered to her, stroking her hair. Then he drew back and unbolted the corroded metal doors of his lair.

The assassin paused in the doorway and turned back to look at her. To Kroenen's mind, the scene could not be more perfect: his Angel of Death lit by hellfire…

He left the doors standing wide open for her.

Author's Notes: Teehee! Ilsa dropped into sewer water! Somehow I just find that mental image to be amusing…I hope everyone found the scene with Erica and Kroenen to be as powerful and beautiful as I tried to make it—I rewrote it twice and the last time I tried it just flowed out of me. Please review!


	18. Homecomings and Deceptions

**Chapter 18: Homecomings and Deceptions**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters and Oreos do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Luke, Brittany, and the plot that isn't from the movie belong to me.

Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed the last chapter, and another big thank you to everyone who reviewed and gave me feedback! (As an aside, I thought it might interest everyone to know that Though Heaven Bar the Way has now surpassed the length of a Shadow to a Heart, which was 264 pages when I finished it). I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

I wish I had the time to respond to all the wonderful reviews everyone has written, but since I do not, this time around I'm only replying to those that had questions.

**amyltrer:** As for the werewolves and their trouble fighting Ilsa…one of them is rather pint-sized, since she's a 14 year-old girl, so some of the difficulty involved was because Luke was busy trying to keep Brittany safe. And with the love triangle, I can't answer that; it would give the story away!

**icthyosapiengirl:** I update about once every three months. I know that sounds like a long time, but college tends to interfere with the amount of time I can devote to writing.

**Nabierre: **I do not mind long reviews; I actually enjoy them, since they give me so much feedback on what specifically was good or could use improvement. Thank you so much for your comments!

**Ariana Lussier:** Sushi or beef jerky? What a way to put it! We shall see…the plot is ever developing and half the time even _I'm_ not entirely sure where it's going.

**Lady Ano:** Animal Instinct by Psycho Llama is one of my personal favorites. Also, any of linaerys Kroenen fics are extremely well written, and if you're looking for what probably amounts to the only humorous Kroenen story, there's always Karl Kroenen's Bad Day by Blu Embyr. Hope that helps!

"Experience teaches us that silence terrifies people the most."—Bob Dylan

_Abandoned Subway Area_

_Orphanage Basement_

Ilsa was pressed against a wall, staring with terror at the encroaching flames.

She was trapped. The basement was an inferno.

A blast of hellish air hit her full in the face and she turned her head to the side; her skin felt like it was blistering. Thick black smoke hovered in a roiling cloud; tears streamed from her eyes and she coughed and choked as she breathed it in.

A tendril of flame licked out and blazed brightly as it hit a small puddle of water that had dripped from her clothes; despite the unbearable heat she was still far too wet to think she had any chance of running through the fire unscathed—she would be incinerated before she ever reached the exit.

CRASH!

Ilsa shielded her face with her arms as a section of burning beams fell from the ceiling and smashed into the floor, flinging embers and chunks of splintered wood in all directions.

The flames were closer now, lapping out at the last few feet of space that surrounded her boots—

A sort of pressure wave went through the room, rippling the air and bending the flames as if in a strong wind. The sound of the raging fire suddenly became muted. Instinctively, Ilsa turned.

Grigory Rasputin was standing a short distance away among the flames; the fire veered away from his body as though around an invisible barrier, creating a small clear circle around him and a pathway of safety through the blaze.

"_Master!_" she cried as she ran over to him and embraced him.

Grigory smiled down at her as he held her close; with his free hand he gently wiped her tears away with his thumb. Then he stood up straight, tilted his head back, closed his eyes—

And the basement was suddenly as empty of their presence as if they had never existed.

XXXXX

_Abandoned Subway Area_

_Tick…tick…tick…_

The quiet, hoarse sigh of a soul escaping whispered from between the man's parted lips as he slumped forward onto the assassin's shoulder. Kroenen smoothly pulled his blade free of the mess he had made of the man's guts and watched as the man slowly, so slowly, tilted backwards and then twisted as he fell, hitting the ground in a small splash of dirty water. The man's glazing eyes stared sightlessly ahead like twin marbles, his pale, still face like a mask of stone.

_Tick…tick…tick…_

Death was here; Kroenen stood over the felled BPRD agent, scarlet drops of hot blood leisurely winding their way along the cold steel of his baton sword. He knew the man would be dead soon.

The clockwork assassin paused, hearing the distant sound of boots hitting the ground heavily—someone was coming.

He had a scene to set; he must act quickly.

Kroenen placed his baton sword on the ground and then gracefully sat down beside the dying man and leaned back, his feet together, his arms at his sides, laying himself out on the black gravel and water as though lying down in a coffin.

_Tick…tick…_

But of course, _he_ would never have a need for a coffin.

The running footsteps were closer, louder.

And now for 'Death' to come again: Kroenen grasped the winder for his mechanical heart—and with a precise twitch of his wrist, he stopped it.

_Tic_—_THUD. Whirr!_

There was convulsing, some jerking, some shuddering; the sound of cogs and gears grinding and gnashing in protest—

Then nothing.

_Silence._

He wondered if Erica would mourn him.

XXXXX

_Abandoned Subway Area_

_Furnace Room_

Hellboy sloshed through the ankle-deep water and mud of the dingy tunnel leading to the clockwork assassin's makeshift "home"—the same furnace room where Hellboy had run into Sammael before crashing down a service shaft and into the subway system.

But this time he knew the assassin wasn't a threat to anyone. _All the damage that pinhead will ever do is already done,_ he thought bitterly.

Which was why Hellboy was here: no one had heard from Erica since she had followed him and Clay into the tunnels, and before the BPRD medics had taken Abe away on a stretcher, the fish-man had deliriously muttered something about Erica and Kroenen. Now that a bunch of agents and medics from the BPRD were on the scene taking care of the others and cleaning up, Hellboy had a gut-feeling that the furnace room would be the first logical place to look for her.

He was right. From where he stood in the doorway he could see Erica's limp, black-clad form laid out among the blindly staring gasmasks on the desk. She wasn't moving. For a moment Hellboy felt a stab of panic, but then he noticed the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. She was just unconscious.

He stomped over to her and nudged her gently. After a moment Erica stirred and her eyelids fluttered open. Her grey eyes flicked back and forth before settling on his face; she looked confused and disoriented.

"Hey," Hellboy said, his voice gentle. He half-smiled down at her, but Erica saw there was something sad and tired behind his expression.

"Hey," Erica murmured. Her brain felt fogged, and to add to that there was a sharp, pounding pain at the back of her skull. She slowly sat up; the action knocked several papers and a handful of screws to the floor. Erica winced at the sound of crashing metal and gingerly touched the hard bump on the back of her head. "Ow…my head…that doesn't feel good…"

"Trust me, you're one of the lucky ones."

That got her attention. "Abe! Is he okay? Did—?"

"He'll be okay. Our medical team is takin' him, Clay, Luke, and your sister—she's fine, just bruised up a little—back to the BPRD. After they showed up I started lookin' for you; you're the last one."

"Last one? But what about…?" Erica trailed off. Hellboy's slight smile had faded into an expression of gloom and misery.

Erica's face paled. "_Mein Gott_…Quarry and Moss? What happened?"

Hellboy shook his head sadly. "I'll tell you on the way back."

XXXXX

_The BPRD Garbage Truck_

It was very quiet in the back of the BPRD garbage truck. The silence was disturbed only by the creaking and swaying of the truck's contents reacting to the bumps and irregularities in the road surface and an occasional soft cluck from the chickens in their wire cages. Hellboy was sitting on top of a crate, a first aid kit open on his lap and a pile of bloody gauze littering the floor at his feet. His shoulders were slumped and his tail hung dejectedly limp, trailing over his discarded leather jacket; glass shards protruded from the jacket's back where they had become firmly embedded in the leather.

Hellboy hadn't said anything since they had gotten back to the truck. Actually, he hadn't said anything since he had finished telling her that Quarry and Moss had been eaten alive by the Sammaels.

Erica watched the silently brooding demon from where she sat on a stool between piles of crates and equipment. She knew Hellboy was blaming himself for the agents' deaths, and as much as her heart ached watching him, she also knew that any attempt to console him or tell him that it wasn't his fault would be rejected. And so she sat, staring at the floor and holding an icepack to the bump on her head while she listened to the road noise in the background.

_At least Hellboy isn't asking me questions about what happened in the tunnels with Kroenen,_ she thought. Hellboy seemed to have assumed there had been another fight, that she had lost, and that was it.

She didn't know what she would do once they got back to the BPRD and people _did _start asking questions; she could lie, but Abe knew at least some of what had gone on—she had no idea how much—and she was certain he wouldn't stay silent.

After all, if Abe had been trying to reach her for as long as he said he had, then he had heard Kroenen say he loved her.

Erica felt heat rising in her cheeks at the memory of that moment and was surprised to realize she was blushing; she stole a glance at Hellboy to see if he had noticed. He hadn't, but she turned to face the wall just in case he happened to look up.

_Kroenen loves me…_

Abe would never believe it, she was sure. Out of concern for her safety, or perhaps his own stubbornness, he would never believe that the clockwork assassin loved her, no matter what she might say about their blood bond and that she would have known if Kroenen was lying.

He loved her. _He_ loved _her_.

But did she love him? For that matter, did she love either of them? Love between friends—she knew what that felt like. Love on the so-called romantic side—she had little to no experience whatsoever.

This she did know: she respected Kroenen, even admired him in certain aspects. He was intelligent, tenacious, clever; there were few who could offer such conversation or challenge in a chess match. Beyond that she couldn't help but feel a certain amount of attachment to the clockwork assassin: he had played a major part in shaping her as she was now, had taught her the skills and knowledge that made her a force to be reckoned with. He had been there to protect her, to comfort her, to bluntly correct her when she was wrong. The six years they had spent together had passed far too quickly…

But could her attachment overcome the nightmares that plagued her of the times he had tried to kill her? How could she look at Kroenen and forget being crushed, immobile, between a wall and his body and watching helplessly as he stabbed her in the chest? How could she forget her terror as he tried to throttle her in the alleys? Could she relearn how to live with someone that murdered at the drop of a hat, whose thoughts bordered and often crossed the line into insanity, and who was prone to bouts of masochistic self-surgery that left his flesh crisscrossed with stitches for weeks?

Abe, on the other hand, was safe. He was the perfect gentleman. He would never frighten her; never give her reason to be disturbed. He was no less intelligent than Kroenen, though his mind was turned more towards the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake rather than to the darker, forbidden sides of science and the occult. And she could not say she was any less attached to him; they had spent decades together working and fighting and laughing and living side by side.

But could Abe tolerate her darker moods? Would he embrace them as she knew Kroenen would? Could she forgive _herself_ for the harm she was likely to cause Abe just by being near him more often? Her memories, her dreams of her past—she could imagine the pain it would cause him to pick up on them as she slept— nightmarish events that she had witnessed and often participated in. She would never be able to live with the thought that when Abe embraced her he might hear men screaming in fear and pain, begging for mercy she had never granted.

Of course, beyond those worries there was also the concern that despite Kroenen's assertions that she didn't have to love him, the assassin might try to harm Abe if she chose to stay with him. Kroenen's past inability to restrain himself in similar circumstances had resulted in more than a few deaths, including that of Leonard Gilbert at the masquerade ball. But even in his jealousy, somewhere in the back of his head the assassin _must_ realize that she would never forgive him if he ever tried to hurt Abe—

Everything in the truck lurched forward as the driver hit the brakes. Erica steadied herself by grabbing onto a shelf bolted to the wall. Glass bottles rattled and from Hellboy's end of the truck there was a small thud followed by muttered curses as the first aid kit slid off his lap and dumped its contents all over the floor.

The truck didn't sit still for long; a moment later it was slowly pulling away again. Erica guessed that they had stopped at the gates to the BPRD and were now driving around to the garages. She set the icepack aside and ran a nervous hand through her hair.

_I won't say anything for a while,_ she decided. _If anyone asks, I'll just say I was in a fight with Kroenen. I won't be lying, just omitting information._ _I'll go to my room for a while and think this through, and once I have my own thoughts straight I'll go and visit Brittany and Abe in the hospital. Particularly Abe— we'll have to talk about what happened underground…_

She could hear men's voices now, accompanied by the sound of engines running idle in the garage. The others must have arrived only shortly before them; traffic in New York was always bad, no matter the time of day.

The truck stopped and the engine cut and Hellboy, with a frustrated grunt, gave up his pursuit of the first aid supplies and instead retrieved his battered leather coat from the floor.

"Just wait 'til Father sees all of us. He's gonna throw a fit," muttered Hellboy as he stomped towards the slowly opening ramp.

Erica followed him but didn't reply, which was probably just as well because her words were sure to have been drowned out by the ruckus in the garage. As she stepped out onto the ramp she was immediately surrounded by agents rushing back and forth; there was a dizzying amount of movement and noise. Nearby, one of the BPRD's cars was empty and all of its doors were hanging open. Another truck similar to the converted garbage truck had its ramp down and medics were milling around it. Erica's eyes caught on it and her heart beat faster.

_Abe…?_ she wondered.

Agents were now coming up the ramp of the garbage truck to unload equipment; Erica caught the shoulder of one as he walked by.

"That truck…who…?"

The agent shrugged, but looked apologetic. "I'm not too sure; everything's gone to hell since Red called back here for help… Either Abe or Clay, I would think…"

She was gone before he had finished speaking, slipping between people as she headed for the truck. She spotted Hellboy standing like a big red mountain among the sea of agents, and caught up with him.

"Who's in that truck over there? Clay?" she asked.

Hellboy turned to face her. He looked absolutely demolished. Suddenly with a sinking feeling Erica wondered what had happened to Clay; Hellboy hadn't said a word—

"Nah, the medics changed their minds; they took Clay straight to the ER. It's closer than here. Goddamn _Nazi_," Hellboy cursed.

For a fraction of a second, as his golden eyes burned with anger, Erica took a step back, thinking his words were directed at her. Then she realized. "Clay ran into _Kroenen?!_"

"Yeah. Clay gave better than he got though; he'll make it, I know he will."

A leaden knot of sickening foreboding formed in Erica's stomach. Something was wrong, _terribly_ wrong.

"Then what…then what happened to Kroenen?" she asked as Hellboy turned and started to walk away.

"He's dead. Clay emptied an entire clip into him."

_No._

It felt like she had been stabbed in the chest. The world halted around her, become nonsensical blurs and meaningless noise. All she could hear was the slow _thud_-_thud, thud-thud_ of her heart in her ears.

_Nein…_

_Thud-thud._

_No, no, no, no, NO!_

Someone was screaming in the back of her head, the sound echoing up from some dark bottomless place in her skull, and screaming and _screaming_…

"Erica?"

Hellboy's voice was muted, like he was talking to her through a pane of glass. He had turned back to her but she was barely aware of him, could barely see him even though she was staring straight ahead. She couldn't breathe. Her chest was too tight. Her heart was racing irregularly, dizzyingly—

"Did you hear me? He's dead. You don't have to worry about—"

She suddenly found herself shouting. "_NO!_ HE _CAN'T_—HE _CAN'T_ BE DEAD—YOU—YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND—!"

The agents in the garage were staring at her. Hellboy looked taken aback. "I checked to make sure," he said. "Dead as a doornail."

"HE'S FAKED IT BEFORE—HE _ISN'T_—HE _CAN'T _BE—!"

And before she knew what she was doing she was running, roughly shoving agents out of her way as she went.

There was a thud as the doors shut behind her.

An agent beside Hellboy broke the stunned silence. "Should we go check? I mean, she seems pretty sure about—"

The demon shook his head. "Clay filled him full of lead. That Nazi's not goin' anywhere but locked in a storage box after Father's finished with the autopsy." Hellboy glanced back at the doors Erica had disappeared through. "She's been afraid of him for so long…you can't blame her for wantin' to make sure he's dead."

Unfortunately he had forgotten that Kroenen hadn't exactly been alive to begin with.

XXXXX

_The BPRD Medical Bay_

_Autopsy Room_

_Day_

The room was cold. The bluish florescent lights in the ceiling glinted dully off the stainless steel walls and spiral staircase; the lights set into the floor gave an eerie glow to the plastic and metal partitions that had been hastily lined up, shielding the room's center from view of the doorway.

Professor Broom was alone; the room was silent except for the soft tap of his cane as he slowly made his way over the gray tile floor. He paused for a moment and unbuttoned the his suit jacket, sliding it off his shoulders and laying it on a metal cart with a soft rustle of cloth, before turning back to face the room's center.

Karl Ruprecht Kroenen was laid out on the stainless steel table, his corpse as cold and lifeless as the sterile room that surrounded it.

The black fabric covering the assassin's torso was pockmarked with bullet holes; a light dusting of sand clung to the rough edges of the torn fabric. With a practiced gesture Broom pushed his glasses up his nose and peered at Kroenen's metal chest-plate; it was intriguing, with its intricate designs and the gears in its glass panes still slowly revolving.

As he looked down at the dead clockwork assassin Professor Broom couldn't help but recall the circumstances of their last meeting. He vividly remembered the gut-wrenching stab of fear he had felt when he had looked over his shoulder and seen Kroenen stalking towards him through the chaos of battle, the glass eye pieces of his mask locked on him in a predatory, murderous stare as he raised his blades.

The mask didn't seem nearly as threatening now under the florescent lights and removed from the hurricane-swept battle of six decades before. But neither did it give the impression of harmlessness; the blank stare of the voids hiding Kroenen's dead eyes was more than a bit unsettling.

Broom rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt and pulled on a pair of clear plastic gloves. As much as he wanted to hear firsthand what had gone wrong in the subway tunnels, he knew that it would be a while before everything settled down enough that they could all sit down and discuss it. In the interim he would start the autopsy of the clockwork assassin.

"Who knows what we could learn…" Broom murmured.

He slid a hand under Kroenen's head, leaning it forward and unbuckling the leather straps that held on his gasmask. He grasped the mask on either side and pulled it away—

The quiet and solitude was abruptly shattered as someone burst through the doors and ran straight into the partition in front of the doorway. Startled, Professor Broom turned just in time to see the metal and plastic contraption crash to the floor, taking the intruder with it. The black-clad figure didn't pause but instantly tried to get up, stumbling as it hastily untangled itself.

"Erica?" Broom said, recognizing the cut of her leather trench coat. Erica looked up as he spoke, revealing a face drained of color and grey eyes glinting with desperation or fear or madness, he wasn't certain. Her eyes flicked to the table behind him and widened.

"GET AWAY FROM HIM! HE'S _NOT _DEAD!" she shouted.

Broom dropped the mask to the floor and moved with a speed he didn't know he still possessed; he stepped backward and then whirled around, expecting to see the assassin sitting up, reaching for his blades—

Kroenen was still lying limply on the table. There was no sign that he had moved at all.

The Professor's eyebrows knit together and with a questioning expression on his face he turned back to Erica, who, having freed herself from the tangle of metal and plastic, was heading straight towards Kroenen.

"He CAN'T be dead—he _can't_—he's faked it before—" she said. To Broom it sounded as though she were talking more to herself than to him.

Her pace slowed as she neared the table. She stopped beside it, panting and out of breath.

Erica felt something inside her change as she gazed down at Kroenen. Her initial panic and rush was gone. Now that she saw the assassin laying there, his body in one piece, she felt more confident that he wasn't dead. Yes, she knew better; he was just playing with her head, playing his games with her, pretending to be dead just as he had in the past. That was all it was: a game, just a game, like when they played chess together.

"Faked it?" Broom asked, sounding concerned.

"Ja," she replied. With a hand on one of her baton sword's hilts she moved over to Kroenen's head and gazed down at his mutilated face, unflinchingly trailing her eyes over the network of scars and the raw, abused flesh around his lidless eyes and lipless mouth. His blue eyes were rolled back in his head, but they were still crystal clear and as beautiful as she remembered. She considered them for a moment and then leaned against the cold metal table so her face was directly over his—and then she blew a stream of air into his eyes with her lips.

His eyes didn't move. Not even a millimeter.

Erica frowned and her eyes flicked down to inspect Kroenen's torso. Bullet holes were clearly visible in his stomach, but his engraved chest-plate was still intact.

She hesitated for a moment, and then, praying that she wasn't making a terrible mistake that would end with Kroenen's hands around her throat, she laid her head on his chest, pressing her ear against the cold metal designs above his clockwork heart.

_Silence_.

Yes, there was the soft, nearly inaudible whirr of some mechanical thing inside him winding slowly down, but the loud steady tick that had heralded his approach and haunted her dreams was gone. _Dead_.

A stab of panic shot through her again and she wrestled to force it down. "Ja, of course he's pretending. How could Clay do something I could not? Guns are useless against him; I tried it myself—it's impossible—he's just acting, that's all—"

But it occurred to her that when Kroenen had feigned death in the past he had always revealed that it was a charade, nothing more, as soon as she had called him. He might have held out for a second just to tease her, but he had always sat up, spoken to her, embraced her…

Fear flooded through her. "It can't be true, it can't—you're not alive enough to die, right? Please stop it, please, please—you're scaring me—"

Even to herself it sounded like she was grasping at straws.

Behind her Broom shifted his weight to his good leg and leaned on his cane. _So Erica still cares about him_, he thought. _Despite the many times they have tried to murder the other, when it comes down to it, at the bottom, at the heart of the matter…_

"Karl?" Erica murmured. It sounded like a plea.

And then, to Broom's shock, she roughly grabbed the assassin by the shoulders and shook him.

"STOP IT! WAKE UP!" she demanded. "SAY SOMETHING!"

But no answer came. There was only the sound of Kroenen's grotesque head flopping back and forth on his neck as she shook him.

Erica released her grip and Kroenen fell back to the table as limp as a puppet whose strings had been cut.

She took a step back from the table and Broom moved forward to comfort her— Abruptly Erica pulled a knife from her belt, braced herself, and violently plunged it into Kroenen's stomach. The blade sank in to the hilt.

Panting, Erica leaned over the assassin, her hand still white knuckled around the blade. Her eyes searched his face, his body for any movement, any reaction, any sign of life, no matter how small.

Nothing.

Tears pooled in her eyes and spilled over, her lips trembled, and then she could hold it in no longer: a hoarse cry broke the silence as she released her grip on the blade and dropped to the floor, sobbing.

"_No, no, no_…"

God, it hurt. She wasn't sure she had ever felt such pain. She felt like some part of her had died, too, had been ripped out of her like the bullets had ripped through Kroenen's body. _Oh God…please…no…_

"Erica?" a soft voice said. Professor Broom was standing beside her, gazing down at her. His blue eyes were kind; there was a strange but comforting _understanding_ in them, as though he somehow knew everything. "Why are you crying?"

Erica swallowed thickly and struggled to piece her thoughts together. She saw no point in lying now; not to him.

"Down in the tunnels—I thought he was trying to—but he wanted to talk—"

"And?" Broom prompted gently.

"He _apologized_—he didn't want to hurt me—he said—he said he—he _loves_ me…"

She hugged her arms tighter around herself. There. It was out; she had said it.

"Ah." Professor Broom leaned back a little, looking contemplative instead of surprised, as she had expected. He glanced at her over the top of his glasses. "And you're sure he was telling the truth?"

She nodded silently, sniffling and wiping at her steady stream of tears with the back of her hand.

Broom sighed and closed his eyes. "I'm not surprised," he said. "You were his favorite. Feelings that strong never fade away entirely."

"It never changed," she said softly. "Never changed at all, and now he's—he's—" she stopped, choking back another sob and squeezing her eyes shut to hold back a new wave of hot tears. It didn't help; she felt them trickling from the corners of her eyes and leaving stinging trails on her cheeks and lips.

"Erica."

She opened her eyes; Broom's blue eyes smiled sadly back at her from behind his glasses. "That's not all there is to it, is there? You love him too, don't you?"

"I—n—" she hesitated, and then her eyes fell on the still form on the table. Her eyes hovered there for a moment. "Yes," she said, her voice hushed, nearly inaudible but sounding as loud as thunder to her own ears. "Yes, I do."

That was why that horrible ache in her chest was there; the gut-wrenching pain like someone had stabbed her and cruelly twisted the blade in the wound. Why that hollow aching emptiness was there inside her.

"I—I never told him—never admitted it—and now I can't tell him—and _Abe_—"

"Shhh. Don't feel guilty," Broom said. He leaned down and ran a frail but comforting hand over her hair. "Love is never as straightforward as fairytales would have us believe. It comes in forms and places and times unexpected; you have to learn to accept your feelings for what they are."

After a few moments he held out a hand to her. She took it and stood up shakily, trembling from head to toe. Broom pulled her into a hug and she returned it, squeezing him tightly, unaware of the dark spots her tears left on the shoulder of his waistcoat. After what felt like an eternity Erica pulled away and wiped at the tearstains drying on her face. She wasn't crying anymore but she felt completely exhausted, both emotionally and physically. She had reached a sort of strange, sad calm. She looked down at Kroenen again and felt Broom's hand on her shoulder.

"I think, for my part, that he _already_ knew," Broom said. "Some things don't have to be said out loud; some things we just _know_."

Erica closed her eyes and bit her lip, forcing down the lump in her throat and the tears that threatened to well up again.

"Will you be alright?"

"Ja, ja. I'll—I'll be fine."

"I won't do the autopsy for a few hours… I'll give you some time alone, and then I want you to go to your room and get some rest."

She nodded and he patted her on the arm and smiled before turning and limping in the direction of the doors, his cane tapping and his rosary beads clacking softly.

Erica waited until the doors had closed behind him before she slowly approached the table again. She gently pulled the blade from Kroenen's stomach and then intertwined her fingers with his; she half hoped his cold hand would tighten around hers.

But she knew it would not.

She leaned over him, gazing down at his wreck of a face, blind to his nightmarish appearance.

"I love you," Erica whispered. And she leaned down and lightly pressed her lips to his forehead.

His scarred skin was taught and smooth, and when she pulled away her lips were cold. Erica shivered. She felt as though she had done something wrong, but also as though she had finally done something right…

She lingered a moment and then reluctantly, feeling like she was leaving something unbearably dear behind, slipped her hand out of his and turned and walked away.

XXXXX

_The BPRD Medical Bay_

_Hospital Wing_

The hospital section of the BPRD was in chaos.

None the least because Hellboy was pacing back and forth and getting in the way of the medics.

"What do you mean I can't see Blue?!" the demon demanded. His shirt was off and his red skin gleamed under the lights.

"He's in critical condition—" the doctor repeated for the tenth time.

Hellboy wasn't listening. Scowling, he flopped down on the nearest hospital bed. The metal frame squealed in protest but he ignored it. Giggling came from beside him and he glanced sideways at Erica's little sister. Brittany was sitting cross-legged on the bed next to his; the girl's arms and neck were covered with white bandages, but otherwise she was unharmed. Luke wasn't so lucky; he had been taken elsewhere to be treated for the stab wounds on his leg and side.

"What's so funny, half-pint?" Hellboy asked gruffly.

"Your tail; it twitches funny," she replied, giggling again. "Like a cat."

Hellboy's expression softened. He couldn't help but like the kid. Despite everything she had been through in the last few hours she was still smiling. Brittany was absolutely thrilled to be inside the BPRD; her eyes were darting everywhere taking in everything she could about the secret organization.

"Oh, one of the agents left these for us. He thought we might be hungry," she said. She gestured to a small cart that had two cafeteria trays on it piled with food.

Out of the corner of his eye Hellboy saw a doctor and his assistant heading towards him, armed with medical supplies. _Oh, great_, he thought. _They're _never_ as good as Abe._

Just as the doctor got within six feet of him Hellboy got off the bed—it sighed in relief behind him—and lunged for Brittany, ruffling her blond hair and knocking her over on the bed in the process.

"_Hey!_" she protested as he made a beeline for the food cart. "No fair!"

Hellboy chuckled as he scooped up one of the trays with his huge right hand. "You snooze you lose. Some of us haven't eaten since breakfast today."

"You had a candy bar while we were down there!"

Hellboy paused. She had a point. "Oh okay. Since I'm feeling generous…" He took a bowl off his tray and put it on hers.

"Steamed carrots? Hey!"

"What?" Hellboy asked, feigning innocence. She pouted. "Alright! Alright! You can have my brownie too! And geeze, kid, knock it off with the puppy-dog eyes! …Not that that's likely to happen, since you're a werewolf and all…"

Brittany grinned mischievously and dug in, starting with his brownie first. Hellboy glanced at the Oreos on his tray and instead picked up the remaining bowl. He started pacing again, absentmindedly shoveling food into his mouth with a spoon. Mmmm, the chili was good; he'd have to find out who had brought the food and make sure they got a promotion.

"_Would you hold still for a minute?!_" the doctor yelled, breaking in on Hellboy's train of chili related thought. The demon turned and coolly surveyed the much shorter man; the doctor's brow was furrowed where his eyebrows were drawn sharply together and down, clearly frustrated. And that tic in his forehead wasn't doing anything for his appearance.

"Ya know, I never thought anyone could sound just like Blue…"

Brittany laughed as she watched from her hospital bed, half of an Oreo in her hand. That made Hellboy smile. Just to make her laugh again he started to duck as the doctor's assistant moved in to clean his cuts. Then Hellboy stopped.

Oreos? He glanced at his tray. It was completely empty.

"_Damn!_ She swiped my Oreos too!"

XXXXX

_Outside the BPRD _

Liz stepped out of the cab. The cold autumn wind tossed her long black hair and a few crunchy leaves skittered around her feet. It felt so good to be outside again. It had been so long…

Behind her she heard Agent Myers pay the cab driver and then a scuffle as he struggled with her suitcases. A brief smile crossed her lips and she rolled her eyes at his awkward courtesy and sheepish grin.

Even though she had told Myers she was only coming back for the weekend, she couldn't help but secretly hope that this time things really would be different, just like he had said.

She missed everyone. She missed being with people who just saw her as Liz, instead of seeing her as a woman with a dangerous disease that needed curing. She missed being somewhere where she was "normal" compared to everything else dealt with on a daily basis. She missed feeling useful, being needed. She missed being home and feeling loved.

The security guard held the door for her and greeted her politely. Liz stepped through the doorway; her shoes made the same noise they always did on the polished lobby floor.

Her heart beat faster, doing a little dance of joy at recognizing her surroundings.

Maybe, just maybe, this time things really had changed.

Maybe, this time, she would be home for good.

Author's Notes: So this is the last update before I go back to college; I'm moving in on Saturday, August 30th. Please be understanding that I have a lack of time, but I promise to update; the next chapter will probably be up sometime around Thanksgiving or winter break. I hope you enjoyed this chapter; please review!


	19. The Devil’s In the Details

**Chapter 19: The Devil's In the Details**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Luke, Brittany, and the plot that isn't from the movie belong to me.

Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed the last chapter, and another big thank you to everyone who reviewed! A belated Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all! My next update will probably be somewhere around spring break.

A few replies to those that had questions or comments that needed answers:

**houseXofXnight:** Thank you for your long review! Don't worry, I will finish this story; I'm estimating another four chapters before it's finished, and I am vaguely playing with the idea of a sequel following along the lines of The Golden Army if I can come up with a complex and intricate enough plotline.

**DarkCloudRider:** I think the reason the autopsy room scene seemed a bit rushed is because the last chapter and this chapter were originally together—the scenes from the last chapter continue in here. In retrospect I probably should have posted them together. Thank you for the dreaming idea; it inspired me to add something similar but a little different (a flashback) that I think really adds a lot to this chapter.

**vauderenz:** I have thought of getting this published, but unfortunately I have a feeling that violates several copyright laws. That aside, I am simply happy to know that many people on are enjoying my story.

**cylersial:** I speak English, and try rather haphazardly to teach myself to read German. I can only pray that I'm not butchering it; I do my best.

"'Come hither, Son,' I heard Death say; 'I did not will a grave should end thy pilgrimage today, but I, too, am a slave!'"—Thomas Hardy, "The Subalterns"

"Courage doesn't always roar."—Mary Anne Radmacher

"You will reach your goals only with the help of others."—George Shinn

_The BPRD_

_Erica's Room_

_Night_

Erica lay on her bed, toying listlessly with a loose thread on the red sheets. She hadn't left her room since she had gotten back. She had simply collapsed on her bed, boots and all, and been there ever since.

She was exhausted, but couldn't sleep. She was hungry, but couldn't muster up the will to move from her bed. Her mind was in a sort of grey misty limbo where thoughts occasionally drifted through but for the most part there was just an empty aching blankness and a heaviness in her chest that made it an effort to breathe.

Her attempt to pretend the rest of the world didn't exist outside the cocoon of her bedroom had been momentarily disturbed an hour or so ago—she wasn't really aware of the passage of time anymore—by an announcement over the loudspeaker system that had something to do with Hellboy missing again, but she couldn't find it in herself to care.

Erica rolled over and winced as she ran into the corner of the tissue box lying next to her. She had been crying off and on, with the result that a pile of balled up tissues had formed on the floor. She kicked the tissue box off the bed to join them and ran her fingers through her hair, closing her eyes to blot out the sight of her room; she had never realized how much it reminded her of Kroenen. It was the little things: the music box sitting in pieces on her desk, the chess set on the table, her baton swords lying on the floor where she had abandoned them.

Kroenen. Even with her eyes closed she still saw him; his dead body laid out on the cold steel table. She still saw his blue eyes rolled back in his head, blank and staring. She still heard the silence where there should have been the whirr and tick of clockwork. She wanted to hear it again. She wanted to embrace him and tell him she loved him.

For a moment she considered going back to the autopsy room. But the thought of sitting there with his corpse for company was painful. She knew if she did she wouldn't stop crying. Not that she wasn't crying now…

There was a huge, fraying hole in her soul where Kroenen and that part of her life had been ripped out. Kroenen was dead: no one was left that would ever completely understand what she had been, why she had been—what she and Kroenenhad been. What they could have become. He had lived it with her. And now Kroenen, like that life, like that possible future, was just a memory she could only share with herself.

Erica wiped uselessly at her tears and wrapped her arms around her shoulders in a hug. The back of her hand brushed against her neck—she opened her eyes and reached up to touch her throat again. Something thin was wrapped around it like a string or maybe a ribbon; something she hadn't put there, and yet it was familiar. Her fingertips touched a neat bow; she pulled and the ribbon came away in her hand. It was her Iron Cross.

She closed her hand around it tightly and held it to her chest. She knew Kroenen had tied it around her neck, probably only moments before Clay had killed him. With a pang she wondered if Kroenen had died immediately, or if he had lingered, clinging to life. What thoughts had passed through the assassin's mind in his final moments—Had he wished she was there by his side? She hoped he had died instantly; it hurt to think of him lying there in the dark and silence, dying alone…

That thought brought on more tears. Erica drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her pillow. She felt so empty and lonely, but she didn't have the energy to visit Brittany, Luke, and Abe in the hospital wing—Check that. She didn't _want _to see Abe, she didn't even want to _think _about him. How was she going to explain to him what had happened in the subway tunnels, let alone _kissing_ Kroenen now that he was dead? Erica groaned and buried her face in her red pillow. She felt awful.

_Maybe a shower will help_, she thought. The idea of steaming hot water and fluffy towels and clean clothes seemed appealing, so she got up from her bed and kicked off her boots as she walked into the bathroom attached to her bedroom.

Just peeling off her dirty, sweat-soaked clothes felt good. She left them in a heap on the floor and slid back the shower's frosted glass door. Cold water gushed out of the showerhead as she turned the knob so she pushed it over to hot and stood beside the shower waiting for the water to warm up.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and raised her head to get a better look. Erica frowned. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying and the skin around them was puffy and red. Her eyes dropped lower, taking in what a lifetime of combat had done to her body. Her most recently acquired bruises and injuries aside, the pale skin over her muscles was blanketed with a network of scars: bullet wounds from an assassin, a jagged rip from a set of claws, vertical gashes on her stomach and back from squeezing through an underwater hole to escape a giant eel. And then there were other scars, permanent reminders of Kroenen on her body: the stab wound over her heart, the T-shaped lines on her cheek, the countless cuts received while training with him, the lines of tiny dots on either side of them from the stitches Kroenen had used to repeatedly pull her skin back together…

That was an old memory.

_The fire crackled and sparked, throwing shadows over the walls of Kroenen's study. Erica sat a still as possible on a stool, biting her lower lip to keep herself quiet. Her trench coat and bloodied shirt lay abandoned on the floor beside her._

_Kroenen was seated behind her. She felt his fingers skim over the bare skin of her back as he pushed the edges of a wound together and drew a curved needle through them. Erica hissed softly as she felt the tug of the thread passing through her flesh. There were several more tugs as the assassin tied off the thread, and then his left arm appeared in her peripheral vision as he reached for a pair of scissors on the desk. His hand and arm were bare and his scars glimmered silver in the flickering firelight._

_The assassin paused, his fingertips just barely brushing the handle of the scissors. He had noticed she was watching him._

_"Don't worry; I am more careful with you than I am with myself," he said. There was a snip behind her and then a soft clatter as the scissors were replaced on the desk. "You will have a few thin lines as souvenirs." Skilled fingers traced paths beside the sutured gashes and then slowly ran down her spine. Kroenen leaned forward and she felt his breath brush her ear and the side of her face. "But continue ripping out your stitches at this rate and you will look no better than I... And that would be such a pity."_

_Her eyes followed, entranced, as his scarred fingers ran the length of her upper arm and then gently wrapped around her elbow._

_"As often as you are in here, I'm beginning to think you enjoy this."_

_She shook herself out of her daze and reluctantly pulled her eyes away from his hand. "I—I enjoy it no more than you do."_

_"Really." There was doubt in his whisper, as though he had caught the stammer in her voice and was musing over it. "And are you so sure I_don't_ enjoy it?"_

_She felt a shift as the fingers wrapped around her elbow flexed and uncurled, stretching out, their tips brushing the smooth skin near her waist—_

"_Angel, are you paying attention to me?"_

_She was, and raptly, but not in the way he meant. Or perhaps he _did _mean something besides listening to him; he was unusually perceptive and she seemed to be so easy for him to read. But no, he couldn't; her own out-of-bounds curiosity was influencing her perceptions and she would have to rein it in immediately. But still…she wondered as his fingers skimmed over her skin… Regardless, her answer was the same. _

"_Yes."_

_There was a soft noise behind her head as Kroenen sighed. She wasn't sure if it was longing or exasperation that colored the sound._

_"Promise me you will be more careful?"_

_"Ja. Of course," she replied._

"_Good. Put your trench coat on while I find a clean shirt for you; you'll get cold sitting there like that…"_

The mirror was fogging up. Or was it just her eyes? Erica turned away and stepped inside the shower, sliding the glass door closed behind her. The hot water hit her and her muscles relaxed. It was so soothing…

XXXXX

_The BPRD Medical Bay_

_Autopsy Room_

_Night_

X-rays hung all around the room, their ghostly images displaying the clockwork assassin's metal-reinforced bones. A shot of his pelvis, a steel rod inserted into the bone to replace vertebrae crushed by the explosion of the portal generator. A view of his chest cavity, blurred, the space between his ribs occupied by clockwork that was still rotating and ticking away, heedless of its creator's death.

Professor Broom stood over a cart that held Kroenen's clothes and belongings. There wasn't much, and most of it consisted of a variety of blades and other edged implements. There was also an odd looking metal syringe that had been in a pouch on the assassin's belt; Broom had been careful not to prick himself with the needle, having no idea what fluid it contained. He opened another pouch. A slip of paper? He turned it over. It was a photograph. Broom smiled, recognizing Erica from her WWII days with Ilsa and Kroenen beside her.

He started to set the belt down and an envelope fell out of the pouch. There were two ragged pieces of paper inside; Broom's brow furrowed as he peered at them through his glasses. They were stained with age and each piece had ink on one side; perhaps writing…? Examining them would take better lighting and equipment that he only had in his study. Lost in thought he retrieved his cane and left with the two pieces of paper in his hand.

The room was now utterly lifeless.

Silent.

_Click._

The sound was nearly imperceptible, as was the following whisper of gears sliding into place and reengaging; the sigh of tightly coiled springs beginning to slowly unwind, driving cogs and clockwork into motion deep inside the assassin's body.

…_Whirr…Tick_…

Kroenen's chest began to rise and fall, his breathing disturbing the clear plastic sheet the Professor had laid over him. Rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and—the assassin abruptly sat up. He immediately slid his legs over the edge of the metal table and lightly hopped down; the blue cloth over his waist fell away, taking the light plastic sheeting with it. He ignored it; the sight of his own body unveiled in all of its naked nightmarish glory did not disturb him. The floor was cold beneath his feet as he strode across the room to the cart that held his belongings.

His mechanical hand clicked as he pushed it onto its metal dock and he twisted it, latching it securely in place. There was a metallic sound of coiling and stretching springs as the assassin flexed his fingers; he watched as the gears on the back of his hand sped up.

In the space of a few moments he dressed and strapped on his chest-plate and weapons. The mechanical key that drove his clockwork heart slid into the hole in his chest and clicked into place; a few turns and he felt springs wind and tighten inside him, ready for action.

_Tick…tick…tick…_

His baton sword made the air sing as he whirled it around, limbering up. Kroenen had missed nothing while he feigned death.

He had work to do.

XXXX

_The BPRD_

_Erica's Room_

Water glistened on the bathroom floor; Erica shivered as she accidentally put her bare foot down in a puddle.

_One of these days I'll remember to get a rug to put in here,_ she thought.

It was amazing how much better the shower had made her feel. Erica finished drying her long brown hair and ran a brush through it before she hung up her towels. As usual she was wearing a clean black tank top and a pair of black pants.

Her stomach grumbled with hunger. But she still wasn't ready to deal with other people.

_Maybe I'll just sneak down to the kitchens and see if there's anything in the fridge_, she thought. She opened the bathroom door—

Her heart stopped.

Kroenen was sitting at her desk with his boots propped up on its edge, idly flipping a dagger into the air and catching it again.

Erica stared, shocked beyond all belief. "_You're not dead!_"

"Your powers of observation are astounding," Kroenen said, sounding amused. He turned to face her; the blank eyes of his mask glinted. "Thank you for telling me; I would never have guessed."

Adrenaline was shooting through her body and making her heart slam against her ribcage. Shock still had her frozen but her mind was racing. _How did he get here without being seen? And just how _long_ has he been here?!_ She hadn't heard the door to her room open, and with the noise of the water running and the glass door of the shower fogged up he could have been standing right there and she would never have known it. Erica's skin crawled at the thought and then she felt fury rising in her, and not just because of the sense of violation. He had lain there and pretended to be dead while she had shaken him, begging him to show some sign of life. He had lain there and remained silent while she sobbed grief-stricken on the floor. Why had he done that to her? For what _reason_ had he put her through all of that pain? Erica's teeth clenched with anger and behind her back she closed her fist around the knife on her belt.

Kroenen seemed to have interpreted her silence as surprise. He flipped his dagger into the air again; he caught the hypnotically spinning blur of silver without looking at it.

"That was one of my best performances, I think." The assassin tilted his head at her. "You have no idea how hard it was to stay still with everything you were doing to me, Angel." The hint of a smile crept into his voice. "Even _I_ didn't expect you to kiss me."

"You—you—you _fucking bastard!_" she yelled. Before she knew what she was doing or why she launched herself at him, her knife drawn. A fraction of a second before she collided with him the assassin stabbed his dagger into the top of her desk and spread his arms in some strange parody of an embrace, welcoming her attack—she slammed into him and the chair toppled backwards, crashing to the floor and spilling both of them onto the carpet. They tumbled over the floor, a tangle of limbs and a flash of lethal silver—the skin on her elbow burned as it was dragged over the carpet—the assassin was getting the upper hand and she kicked out, turning them over again—Kroenen's breath was rasping in her ear, and he was laughing at her—

"There's my Angel of Death!" he crowed. A few seconds later the side of his hand chopped down on her wrist, knocking the blade from her hand, and he quickly pinned her beneath him. Erica was panting, her chest heaving; with her chestnut hair spilled over the floor she looked beautiful. Kroenen chuckled at her and ran his fingers down the side of her face.

"Determined to make my deception real? You cannot kill an undead man, Erica," he admonished her. "You should know that now, just as you should have known that a few hours ago." She glared at him, her angry grey eyes blazing; he ignored it. "Besides, I thought you would be pleased to see me again. Or so that touching 'I love you' seemed to suggest."

Her anger faded into irritation. "I thought you were dead. I was grieving. I'm not responsible for anything I did or said."

"Not responsible…? Oh, I think you will find you're _dead _wrong about that." His gloved fingers were tracing the curve of her ear. "Your Professor Broom is very perceptive. You admitted it to him, so do not lie to me."

Erica was silent.

"Come now; it is unwise to play hard to get with an assassin. It just makes me more determined."

She sighed and closed her eyes. "Why don't you let me up first?"

Kroenen tilted his head at her. "Agreed."

He climbed off of her and, deep in thought, Erica stood and moved over to the table. She distractedly ran a hand through her hair and stared down at the glass chess-set in front of her.

"Alright…" She took a deep breath. Behind her she heard the rustle of cloth as Kroenen shifted; waiting. "This is so confusing…I said I love you, and I meant it. I still do. But I…I still haven't made up my mind about Abe—"

Kroenen's arms suddenly slid around her waist from behind, pulling her back against his body.

"What are y—?"

She stopped at the alien sensation of something wet, cold, and hard closing gently on the side of her neck. For a fraction of a second she was confused. Then it hit her: teeth. Kroenen's_ teeth_.

Her stomach tightened and she froze, shocked. And then he did it again; _harder_. Erica involuntarily gasped, her eyes wide, and found herself turning her head to the side and baring more of her neck to him. Behind her Kroenen laughed softly; a deep sound that came from his chest. Erica felt heat rise in her as she flushed crimson.

The assassin's chest-plate pressed against her as he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that to you." His thick German accent sent not-so-unpleasant shivers rippling down her spine. "I would kiss you, but seeing as that is an impossibility…"

His tongue flicked across the edge of her ear. Erica's breath caught in her throat. The assassin heard it and responded by tightening his grip on her waist; pulling her closer and sliding his tongue the length of her ear and then down her neck. Erica whimpered and closed her eyes, realizing in a rather confused way that she had completely relaxed into his embrace; that she was _enjoying_ what he was doing to her; that she _wanted_ him to…

His mechanical hand had snuck under the edge of her tank top and his fingers were resting on her stomach, tracing spiraling patterns over her flesh with slick metal fingertips. Erica tentatively dared to move; her left hand found his right on her hip and her fingers wandered over his leather glove, hovering there for a moment before hesitantly pushing under the edge of his sleeve. His skin was still cold from being in the autopsy room, and she could feel ridges as her fingers drifted over deep scars and lines of stitches, following them up his arm. She had no idea what she was doing, but Kroenen seemed to like it; his teeth and tongue were pulling and licking insistently at the skin on her neck and shoulder as he slid the strap of her tank top down her arm.

"_My Angel…my Angel of Death…_" Kroenen murmured. He pushed the arm on her hip forward, up her stomach, and his sleeve slid up past his elbow; her fingertips followed it, exploring up his arm, and without thinking she started to turn her head to the side—

"Wait," he said. His mechanical hand was held against her face, gently preventing her from turning around with metal fingertips that radiated the heat they had stolen from her skin. Erica held still and behind her she heard him adjusting his mask, sliding it back down over his face. His hand found her cheek again and Erica turned around— and impulsively pressed her lips to Kroenen's mask.

The metal was not cold as she had expected; instead it was warm, heated by the assassin's breath rushing rapidly in and out. As she kissed him one of his hands moved up to caress the side of her face; his fingers slipped around her ear to twine in her hair.

After a wonderful eternity Erica pulled back. Kroenen would have smiled in triumph if he still had lips: the pupils of her grey eyes were huge, dilated as far as they would go, their depths filled with passion and curiosity.

"You tempt me… unfortunately we have neither the time, nor is this the place," the assassin said.

Erica looked at him quizzically. Behind his words something wasn't _right_.

_Neither the_ _time?_ _Why? Shouldn't he have as long as he wants?_ she wondered. _I mean, unless someone notices his body missing from the autopsy room…_

Then the logical part of her brain surfaced from beneath the intoxicated waters clouding her judgment. Kroenen had obviously been playing dead for a reason and she suddenly doubted it was solely to visit her. They were still officially on opposite sides since he had yet to reveal to his master that he had no intention of sacrificing her to the Ogdru Jahad—which meant he was still following Rasputin's orders; was probably _here_ on his orders.

An icy needle of fear stabbed at her stomach. _What are they planning to do?_ Erica thought. But she knew it didn't matter; regardless, she would have to stop Kroenen—or at least delay him, which was the more likely outcome.

She glanced out of the corner of her eyes at the dagger Kroenen had abandoned on her desk, and then over at her knife on the carpet and her baton swords laying by the door, quickly gauging that the assassin's dagger was the closest. Kroenen's arms tightened subtly around her waist; the sensation of his steely muscles tensing was clear even through her clothing. Erica swallowed thickly, her heart hammering now with an entirely different emotion, and shifted her gaze back up to his mask. He had seen her look; he knew what she was planning to do: the eyes of his mask glinted a dual warning and a challenge.

Erica smiled disarmingly at him and leaned in, tilting her head back as she moved in as though to kiss him again—instead she violently thrust her arms out against his chest and sprinted towards her desk—an iron grip seized her ankle, bringing her to a halt so abruptly that her chin slammed into the floor and wild stars burst before her eyes. She tried to move but her limbs responded as though encased in frozen mud; the impact had stunned her.

A shadow fell over her. Two glass circles glinted within the silhouette. "You are fast, but not fast enough!"

Kroenen easily flipped her over on her back and dragged her across the room towards her four-poster bed, her wrist clenched in his mechanical left fist as tightly as though closed in a vise. Instinctively panicking, Erica struggled and lashed out at him, twisting her body around and kicking him as hard as she could in the legs. Her bare toes and heels slammed into his impervious jackboots and she nearly howled at the pain but she kept kicking. It had absolutely no effect and a moment later Kroenen hauled her off the floor and threw her down on the bed. Erica instantly twisted to the side and her fingers scrabbled among the books on her bedside table, knocking them to the floor. She touched cold metal and grabbed the knife that had been hidden by the books—Kroenen reached for her and she plunged the blade into his chest. Unphased, the assassin slammed his knee painfully into her guts, knocking the air from her lungs and pinning her to the bed.

Kroenen leaned his bodyweight on his knee and felt it dig into her ribcage. Beneath him Erica gasped like a fish out of water, her grey eyes wide and staring, but her thrashing lessened as she struggled to breathe.

The ghost of a satisfied smile crossed Kroenen's mutilated features and he seized the opportunity to pull a short length of thick rope from his belt and tie one end of it securely around Erica's wrist. The other end was quickly fastened to a post of her canopy bed and then, seeing that his Angel was starting to breathe again, he stood back out of her reach.

She sat up, fury blazing in her eyes. "What the hell?!"

"I believe _I_ should be the one making such a statement; _you_ were the one who pretended to kiss me and then attacked me," Kroenen said smoothly. He plucked the knife from his chest and discarded it. "Such behavior from one who was complaining only hours ago that _I _was being violent."

Erica ignored his comment and looked down at the rope; there was less than six inches between her wrist and the bedpost. _I do not like where this is going,_ she thought. She yanked experimentally at the rope, testing its strength, but the knots and the bedpost were very sturdy. For the first time in her life Erica deeply regretted having a canopy bed and she vowed vehemently to get rid of it in the future, providing there was one.

"Why did you tie me up?" she demanded.

"There are many reasons, _liebchen_. Unfortunately I do not have the time for several of the more entertaining ones," Kroenen said. Erica stared at him as she caught the hint of suggestiveness in his voice. He laughed. "It's a pity. I truly regret having to settle for this." He drew a nasty looking metal syringe from his belt.

Erica's eyes widened with fear and she backed away from him as far as the rope tether would allow. Kroenen simply grabbed her arm and pushed her down on the bed and held her there despite her attempts to fight back. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his free arm move in a blur and then she felt a sharp pain in her neck followed by the nauseating sensation of a foreign liquid being injected into her veins, displacing and interrupting the flow of blood. Almost instantaneously her limbs stopped obeying her and went limp.

As soon as her muscles relaxed Kroenen moved off of her and sat beside her on the bed. His outline appeared indistinct to her eyes; her vision was quickly fuzzing out and blurring into a mix of colors and shadows and indistinct shapes. She had a feeling of vertigo as the assassin slid his arms beneath her and rearranged her on the bed so the pillows were under her head. His hand brushed over her cheek as he tenderly smoothed the hair out of her face.

"Emergency sedative," he explained. "Sleep well…"

Her vision blacked out. Erica heard Kroenen moving around the room, and then the quiet click of the door as it shut behind him.

_Damn you,_ she thought._ This is the second time you've knocked me out—_

And the next moment, there was no next moment.

XXXXX

_Building Rooftop_

The plate of oversized sugar cookies was deliciously warm in the boy's hands as he carefully balanced it with two glasses of milk. His mother had been on the phone and hadn't noticed him sneaking into the kitchen and then back out again far from empty handed.

Hellboy eyed the plate of cookies as the boy set it down on the concrete roof parapet.

"My Mom baked 'em," the boy said. He handed Hellboy a glass of milk that was dwarfed by the demon's huge red hand and then sat down beside him. The boy followed Hellboy's gaze to the chatting and laughing man and woman below on the park bench.

"She's laughing."

"Huh?"

"She's sitting on a park bench, and she's laughing. That's it: I'm done," Hellboy sighed. He grabbed a cookie off the plate and started scarfing it down. Damn, he was hungry. He hadn't had a real lunch since Erica's half-pint sister had cheated him out of most of it. Mmmm. The sugar cookie was good and warm, just the way he liked them. Hot out of the oven.

The pigeons fluttered as a few crumbs fell and scattered across the rooftop. Hellboy didn't notice; his amber eyes were once more locked on Liz and Myers below.

"They don't _look_ like spies," the boy said.

Hellboy snorted. "Are you kidding me? Look at this guy, those shady little eyes, that—phony grin…!!" he said and gestured at Myers with his stone hand. Hellboy spotted the last cookie, rapidly cooling in the crisp autumn air. "Hey, you gonna eat that?"

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Professor Broom's Study_

With the help of a micro-scanner and computer enhancement the missing areas of the two pieces of paper from Kroenen's belt were filled in. The completed Cyrillic letters read Sebastian Plackba #16.

_Moscow_.

Professor Broom's aged fingers scanned the text of an old dusty book, finding Grigory Rasputin's date of birth, date of death. His fingers paused at a particular line: _His mausoleum is at Sebastian Plackba #16_.

This was all too convenient.

A chill came over the Professor. The pieces of paper had been placed for him to find; it had to have been done on purpose—from what Erica had told him about Kroenen it couldn't have been a mistake. Rasputin wanted Hellboy in Moscow. Which meant it wasn't just chance that the BPRD had found Kroenen.

_Which means he's probably not dead, _Professor Broom realized. _Erica was right._

Adrenaline shot dizzyingly through his old veins and his stomach felt as though it had turned into a solid lump of lead, sitting cold and heavy with dread in his guts. Years of experience allowed him to resist the urge to panic and instead he thought out his course of action logically as he reached for his cane. _I'll have to alert security and get Hellboy and Erica down here—_

The sound of careful, unfamiliar footsteps on the metal spiral staircase reached his ears. Broom looked up. Above him Kroenen was delicately descending the staircase, blade drawn. He was too late.

_Whirrr_…_tick_…_tick…tick_…

Kroenen continued to descend, sparing only a glance at the old man below him.

Nearby, a record was rotating on a phonograph, filling the large library with the gentle strains of music and a woman's soft singing voice. A fire crackled in a metal basin, throwing its warm glow over leather books, antique furniture, and yellowed paper left in heaps with a cheerful sense of disorganization.

Among the library's warm inviting tones Rasputin's black robes stood out like a rotting blight on the flesh of a ripe autumn fruit.

The clockwork man had made quick work of disabling the BPRD's wards. It had been relatively simple given the organization's otherwise expert handling of paranormal defense issues; he assumed it was because they had never expected a threat to come from _inside_ the building. As it was, the most time consuming part of it had involved swiftly killing the agent on guard duty with a knife precisely angled to puncture his lungs so the man couldn't cry out and raise the alarm. The second the wards dropped Rasputin had appeared in the room and given Kroenen his instructions.

Now the assassin had a task to complete. It was one he had performed countless times, but now he had no desire to go through with it.

Grigory Rasputin had ordered him to kill Professor Broom.

The murderous act itself would be simple, betraying nothing of the terrible dilemma it presented: Erica would never forgive him. She would want revenge; she would not trust him. And Kroenen needed her trust or he would have little chance of saving her in Russia.

But if he didn't kill the Professor, he would have no chance of saving her at all. Rasputin would see to that.

And when it came down to Erica's life or another's, Kroenen knew without a doubt whose he would choose.

"Every time I died and crossed over, a little more of the Master came back with me." Grigory spoke in a dark whisper thick with the nameless horrors of the abyss. The flesh of his arm heaved and twitched as tentacles writhed beneath it, playing over his tendons and muscles. "He disclosed to me the child's true name… would you like to know it?"

Professor Broom met Rasputin's gaze in defiance. "I know… what to call him. Nothing you can do or say can change that. And I call him… _son_."

Broom stood before a bookstand; the old volume propped up on it was open. The beads of the old man's rosary clacked and rattled as he placed it on the page, marking the final clue for the last part of the journey awaiting Anung-un-Rama.

The Professor gave Kroenen and the blade in the assassin's hand only the briefest of glances, then held his head high and stood as straight as his old age would allow him. An air of quiet dignity surrounded the doomed man. "I am ready," he said softly.

"It will be quick." Rasputin laid a falsely comforting hand over Broom's, and then with a hint of an unpleasant, triumphant smile he pulled away—and vanished abruptly, leaving Kroenen to complete his task.

Professor Broom stiffly regarded his soon to be executioner. For the second time that night he met the blank gaze of Kroenen's mask. This time he saw death gazing back at him. Broom faced it with calm and acceptance. For a man who had spent a lifetime fighting the dark forces in the world, no death could be more fitting. He had a feeling he had known all along that it was not his fate to die as other mortals did; that it would not be cancer's wasting, lingering death that ultimately claimed his life. It felt strangely appropriate, too, that it was Kroenen who would kill him, finishing what he had begun sixty years ago in the storm swept ruins of Trondham Abbey.

Broom had no fear for himself, but for his son… he worried. It was a dangerous experiment he had begun six decades ago, raising a demon to be a man—to be his son. But if he were offered the opportunity to reverse what had been done, he would not take it. He knew there would be a choice waiting for Hellboy in Moscow, and one that could have terrible consequences. But Hellboy would do the right thing. Broom knew he would. His son would make him proud.

Silently, Kroenen settled in behind him.

Broom closed his eyes and waited for death.

_Tick_…_tick_…_tick…tick_….

Kroenen's raspy breathing neared his ear, the rough rhythmical exhales loud and harsh as the assassin leaned in.

"I do this unwillingly," Kroenen whispered. His voice was a nearly inaudible but unexpectedly gentle hiss hinted with bitterness. "Your death is needless. I do this only so my intentions are not suspected; so I can save someone both of us hold very dear."

Professor Broom opened his eyes. A faint smile briefly crossed his aged features. "I understand," Broom murmured. "You heard our conversation in the autopsy room?"

Behind him he heard the soft rustle of fabric as Kroenen nodded. "Ja."

"Do what you can to help her. You have my blessing." Professor Broom paused, and then added, "Best of luck."

Kroenen bowed his head silently, humbled by the noble Professor. Once they had been enemies; now circumstances made them odd allies. They really were not that different—they only wanted to protect the ones they loved.

And he would protect Erica. Even if it meant she would hate him. If only he could explain to her…

But now was not the time for remorse. Now was not the time for respect or admiration. Kroenen raised his blade to the back of the Professor's neck, his steely muscles coiled and tensed for the killing blow. The music rose.

"Forgive me," Kroenen whispered.

The blade slid in.

It was over in a fraction of a second.

XXXXX

_The BPRD Medical Bay_

_Hospital Wing_

Abe drifted in and out of consciousness, his mind caught in a pain-killer induced fog. He was vaguely aware of his body bobbing gently back and forth within the water-filled healing chamber. He was also aware that the medical staff had retired for the evening; their shadows had ceased to cross his glass tube hours ago.

Which made the silhouette that had just appeared in front of him very odd.

Abe blinked and his second set of filmy eyelids slid over his dark eyes. Yes, someone was standing there, but his vision was still blurred, making it impossible to identify who it was. The person was wearing black, so maybe it was Erica? Abe eagerly leaned forward in the water—

Karl Ruprecht Kroenen's mask stared back at him.

Bubbles streamed from Abe's mouth in shock. Finding himself so unexpectedly close to the Nazi assassin, Abe's first instinct was to flee; he kicked out at the water with his powerful legs and instantly his spine slammed into the back of the small tank. The hard impact sent lightning bolts of pain through his chest and Abe doubled up, gasping. The fish-man struggled to regain control of himself, painfully aware of his weakened condition and that his tank's tight confines offered little protection. If the assassin had murder on his mind, Abe was a proverbial sitting duck.

But as the moments passed, measured out by the steady ticking of Kroenen's internal clockwork, the assassin made no move toward the blades strapped to his legs. By now Abe had recovered; his heart was hammering but he had managed to uncurl his body. He blinked at the man on the other side of the glass and shifted nervously, his gills fluttering. He could detect nothing of the clockwork man's thoughts and the dark, empty eye sockets of Kroenen's mask were unnerving; they were both fixed on him, _staring._ Like he was some specimen on display…

Kroenen took a step forward and Abe recoiled from the glass; slowly this time. The clockwork man instantly stopped his approach and stood still.

"Good evening," the assassin said courteously, and nodded at him.

Abe stared. A greeting was the _last_ thing he had expected from Kroenen. As though he had read his thoughts, the assassin continued.

"I didn't come here to kill you, fish-man."

Kroenen assumed a more casual stance, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. Abe couldn't help but think of the "at-ease" pose of Nazi soldiers he had seen in photographs.

"Then what do you want?" Abe asked. He truly was curious, but warily so, particularly given the surrealism of the situation.

"Direct and to the point, I like that," Kroenen replied, nodding his approval. "I came here…to ask a favor."

Abe blinked, incredulous and instantly suspicious. "A favor? You tried to kill me. Why should I do anything for you?"

"Because we share an interest in Erica's safety."

"And why would you be interested in her safety?" Abe asked coldly.

Kroenen didn't answer him. Instead he came closer, moving with all the elegance of a predator.

"Listen closely, fish-man. I know that we are rivals, but you must help me save her. Erica—_we_—will only have one chance. The favor I ask of you is this: that you tell her whatever I may have done, however I may act, no matter how things may appear…she _must_ trust me."

"Why should _I _trust you?" Abe asked skeptically, his eyes narrowed. Kroenen was still blocking his thoughts and emotions from Abe and it wasn't adding to the fish-man's confidence.

"You shouldn't," Kroenen replied. "Because there is no reason I can give you except to take it on my word, and on Erica's, that I love her and that she loves me in return."

_THUD_.

Abe angrily slammed his palm against the glass and lowered his head so he was glaring directly into the emotionless eyes of the Nazi's mask.

"She does _not_ love you," Abe insisted, his voice strong and clear. He might have appeared intimidating if wincing at his injuries hadn't spoiled the effect.

"You doubt me?" there was a growl in the assassin's voice. Kroenen strode forward menacingly and stopped just short of the glass. His mask's eyepieces glinted eerily. "I pity you, fish-man. You know _nothing._ You may think me cruel for it, but you will know the truth. And I will not spare you a _morsel_ of it."

And with that the assassin pressed his right palm to the glass directly across from Abe's hand.

Instantly Abe's mind was assaulted by a powerful barrage of blurred images and sounds that overwhelmed his already weakened mental barriers. The whirlwind of pictures rushed in, swirling dizzyingly before his eyes—

And suddenly he found himself on top of Erica, pinning her to the floor. Her face was flushed with exertion and anger, and as he stared down at her in surprise he noticed the reflection in her eyes was not his face—it was Kroenen's mask.

Abe suddenly understood; he was seeing events through the assassin's eyes, just as he had experienced them moments ago.

"Not responsible…? Oh, I think you will find you're _dead _wrong about that." Kroenen said. Abe felt a flare of anger as he noticed the assassin's gloved fingers were tracing the curve of Erica's ear. "Your Professor Broom is very perceptive. You admitted it to him, so do not lie to me."

_Where did she talk to the Professor that Kroenen overheard them?_ Abe wondered.

"Come now; it is unwise to play hard to get with an assassin. It just makes me more determined."

Erica sighed. "Why don't you let me up first?"

"Agreed." Kroenen climbed off of her and Erica walked over to the table, turning her back to him. She distractedly ran a hand through her hair as she stared down at the glass chess-set in front of her.

Watching her from behind, Kroenen reached up and silently unbuckled the straps that secured his mask. He slid the mask up and pulled away the black silk hood he wore beneath it; cool air hit the exposed raw flesh around his eyes and mouth and poured down his throat into his lungs.

Unaware of the assassin's actions, Erica was talking to him. "This is so confusing… I said I love you, and I meant it. I still do."

Abe couldn't believe it. He stared at Erica in absolute shock, his chest aching. After everything, _everything_ that had happened, even today's events in the tunnels when she had been captured and he could have died, _this_ was who she had chosen? _This psychotic murderer?!_

"But I…I still haven't made up my mind about Abe—"

Abe's heart leapt with hope and he strained to hear her next words. But whatever Erica had been about to say about him was cut off by Kroenen's arms suddenly sliding around her waist from behind as the assassin pulled her against his body.

"What are y—?" she protested.

And then Kroenen leaned down and gently closed his teeth on the side of Erica's neck. A second passed where Erica stiffened in his arms, and then he did it again and she gasped and willingly turned her head to the side, baring more of her neck to him.

Abe was horrified. And not only because of what he was seeing: he could feel _exactly_ how much Kroenen was enjoying this; Abe felt _everything_ the Nazi did. It was as though he were the one doing it; only he had no control over his actions. It was a nightmare, living in this monster's skin— Abe felt the warmth of Erica's body against his own; tasted the salt on her skin as the assassin's tongue slid down her ear and neck; heard her breath catch in her throat; felt her fingers run over the scars on his skin as he slid the strap of her tank top down her arm; tasted the skin on her shoulder as his tongue followed the curve of her collar bone, then her shoulder blade, her spine—

_Stop it!_ Abe yelled. He tried to close his eyes against the images but his eyes were Kroenen's eyes, and the clockwork man had cut off his eyelids decades ago.

"_My Angel…my Angel of Death…_" Kroenen murmured, and Abe felt like he would choke on the tongue that pushed against teeth and gums, forming words without lips.

His vision went dark and for a moment Abe thought that Kroenen was done tormenting him, but no, the assassin slid his mask down over his face and he was looking at Erica through tinted glass lenses as she turned around—

And pressed her lips to Kroenen's mask.

"_ENOUGH!_" Abe roared and pushed at Kroenen's mental presence with all his strength—

Abruptly Abe was back in his tank. A few bubbles rose leisurely from the bottom and floated up past Kroenen's mask; he was still gazing at Abe from the other side of the glass. But far from looking cruelly triumphant Kroenen's mask was slightly downcast; his hand was held before the glass, his loosely curled fingers a hairsbreadth from the surface as though he had drawn back in uncertainty.

Kroenen's mental defenses were also down, allowing Abe to pick up on his thoughts. And to Abe's utter amazement, Kroenen was _ashamed_.

"I…did not know…you…" the assassin trailed off.

But Abe heard Kroenen's unspoken words. "I understand," he said softly. Just as he had felt the assassin's pleasure, Kroenen had experienced Abe's anger and pain as though they were his own—and had recognized something of himself in them. There was an image in the assassin's mind, the view as he gazed through a window of the Machen Library and saw Abe holding Erica and kissing her on the cheek, then a surge of boiling hate and white-hot jealousy…

Knowing that he had just inflicted the same excruciating emotional pain on Abe brought Kroenen no pleasure, only guilt.

"Forgive me," the assassin murmured softly.

Abe nodded numbly, not entirely sure why he was granting the request. Dazedly he registered that it was probably one of the few times Kroenen had ever asked such a thing of anyone.

A moment of awkward silence stretched between them where neither of them spoke or looked at the other. For just a moment there was a shared understanding and respect; they both knew they loved the same woman. Where that knowledge would take them now, only time would tell.

Suddenly, something occurred to Abe. If the memory Kroenen had shown him had taken place only minutes ago, where was Erica? It was odd that she hadn't followed Kroenen here; Abe knew she would never let the clockwork Nazi wander the halls of the BPRD alone.

"Where is she?"

Kroenen didn't answer.

Alarm shot through Abe at Kroenen's silence. The assassin had to know where Erica was; the only reason he could be avoiding the question was if he had done something to her.

And he had. Even as Kroenen belatedly started to raise his mental defenses Abe saw Erica unconscious on her bed, her wrist tied to a bedpost. And on the tail end of that memory—

Crimson red. Gushing scarlet. Lethal silver thrust between bone and cartilage. Flesh sliced through to nerves; a familiar presence sucked down into darkness by an invisible force so strong it threatened to seize Abe and drag him down with it. And red, fresh blood spilling, falling, dripping, still crying out its identity as it lost its heat, as it congealed and dried in spatters across Kroenen's slick leather gloves—

Abe reeled as he realized.

The Professor was dead.

Broom was _dead_.

"_Murderer!_" Abe choked out.

Kroenen stood perfectly still. And then slowly, so slowly, he nodded in confession. "Ja. Her life or his. Which would you have chosen?"

"_MURDERER!_"

With strength born of fury Abe kicked out with his powerful legs and dealt the glass wall of the tank a mighty blow.

_CRASH!_

The glass shattered outward in an explosion of crystal shards. Hundreds of gallons of water burst forth in a wave that knocked Kroenen to the floor beneath its weight. An alarm began blaring at deafening decibels and somewhere in the depths of the BPRD an answering siren went off. Abe launched himself at the assassin and felt the tubes and hoses attached to the healing unit on his chest tear loose—and then he was on Kroenen and they were tumbling over the floor, grappling. The assassin's grip on Abe's arm was crushing, but even as weak as Abe was from his injuries and blood loss he was still a formidable opponent; he had one of his webbed hands clenched so tightly around Kroenen's throat that he could feel every vertebrae. Abe wrestled to free his other arm so he could break the man's neck—Kroenen's mechanical left fist slammed into Abe's gills and stars burst in front of his eyes from the pain. He felt his grip on Kroenen's throat weaken; instantly the assassin pulled loose and headed for the exit.

Abe wasn't about to let him escape. He kicked out with his webbed feet and slid across the flooded tile; he grabbed Kroenen around his knees and wrenched his legs out from under him.

The clockwork man fell and collided with a metal cart of equipment before landing heavily on top of Abe. The cart toppled over and medical supplies rained down around them; sharp metal scalpels skittered across the floor and glass beakers hit and detonated like grenades, hurling crystalline shrapnel in all directions. Kroenen lunged at Abe; the fish-man's slick skin slipped right through the assassin's fingers and Abe rolled away from his opponent. His webbed hand came down on something flat and sharp; instinctively he grabbed it and stabbed at the assassin. The long jagged piece of glass sliced into Kroenen's bicep and snapped off in the wound; thin streams of white sand poured from the edges of the gash and down into Abe's eyes. Blinded, Abe's cry of pain was cut off by a strangled gasp as the sand stuck to his wet gills and clogged the membranes; it was like trying to breathe through powdered sugar. Choking and clawing at his stinging eyes, Abe thrashed and rolled over to press his face against the water pooled on the floor. The cool liquid instantly soothed the burning in his eyes and lungs—

A pair of hands roughly seized Abe by his shoulders and flipped him onto his back. His chest heaving from exertion and the struggle to breathe, Abe stared up through clouded eyes at the clockwork man above him. Water ran down the assassin's smooth black mask like droplets of black blood.

"The only reason you are alive and unharmed is because of Erica," Kroenen snarled. "You _will _give her my message…if you want her to live."

The clockwork assassin stepped back and melted into the darkness. Abe didn't have the strength to pursue him. Even with adrenaline racing through his system he could barely move. He lay on his back, gasping and spitting out particles of wet sand. His body ached; the wounds on his chest had reopened and were bleeding again.

_Professor Broom is gone…_

In the background the alarms wailed and flashed their red warning lights. A soft sob tore loose from Abe's throat; his entire body shuddered with it. He squeezed his eyes shut.

_We're too late…_

By the time a group of agents poured in through the medical bay doors, guns drawn, there was nothing they could do.

Author's Notes: To accompany this chapter I did a drawing of Erica and Kroenen; to see it visit my profile and click 'homepage'—it's the first piece of art on the left of my deviantArt page.


	20. The Truth Will Out

**Chapter 20: The Truth Will Out**

Disclaimer: You know the drill: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Luke, Brittany, and the plot that isn't from the movie are mine.

Author's Notes: Hello all! Thank you for the reviews and comments, they did _worlds_ to encourage me while I worked and reworked and then rewrote this chapter. I hope you enjoy the results!

"The deep pain that is felt at the death of every friendly soul arises from the feeling that there is in every individual something which is inexpressible, peculiar to him alone, and is, therefore, absolutely and _irretrievably_ lost."—Arthur Schopenhauer

"You can't undo anything you've already done, but you can face up to it. You can tell the truth."—Unknown

"There is always some madness in love. But there is also some reason in madness."—Oscar Wilde

_Day After Broom's Death_

_Germany_

_Ruins of a Mansion_

_Noon_

Black on white. Charred remnants of wooden beams titled crazily, jutting up from the snow covered field like jagged teeth. Beyond their border the earth dropped abruptly into a giant sinkhole filled with the burnt remains of the elaborate mansion that had long ago collapsed into its vast labyrinthine basement of rooms.

Wearing a red coat and fur hat, the gash marring her pale face healed by Grigory's magic, Ilsa wandered among the skeletal ruins, stopping to run a finger along the fire-scarred remnants of a shattered stained-glass window. She traced the design with her eyes, remembering; though the Nazi swastika in its claws had been smashed out the blood-red Ragnarok dragon was still identifiable.

"To think, we lived here once…" she murmured, turning to face Grigory. His long black coat fluttered slightly in the cold whistling wind; standing perfectly still among the blackened ruins he resembled a phantom more than a man.

"Not so long ago, was it?" There was an edge of darkness and humor in his smile that matched her own.

Nearby shouts disturbed the silence followed by the rattle and clink of chains.

"They've found it," Grigory breathed.

A short walk brought them to an area of the sinkhole surrounded by old, dully painted decommissioned military trucks. A crew of laborers crowded the edge of the pit and swarmed over the debris littered area below, their feet churning the snow into pockets of ash-streaked mud.

The activity centered on a small crane and an object now positioned directly below it. Workers grouped around it, wrapping it with chains and securing them to the hook dangling from the crane. A shout went up and the crane motor roared to life, slowly but steadily hoisting its load into the air.

It was a smooth rectangular block of stone, blacker than obsidian and so dark that it was like a frigid hole in the fabric of the universe. A heavily rusted chain dangled ominously from one side. It ended in a shackle.

Though Grigory's eyes were completely hidden by the rectangular wrap-around sunglasses he wore, the wicked, terrible smile below them was more than enough to express his satisfaction.

"Have them load it onto the truck," he said to Ilsa.

Behind him, in the gloom and darkness cast by the ruins of a brick wall, a shadow stirred from its vigilant watch.

Grigory turned his head, speaking over his shoulder to the assassin. His accented voice dripped with serene brutality. "Once it is on our plane, get rid of them."

The light flickered across the eye pieces of the Nazi's mask as he nodded once. Blades gleamed subtly in the darkness as Kroenen stepped back into the shadows, waiting with all the patience of death.

XXXXX

_Two Days After Broom's Death_

_The BPRD_

_Professor Broom's Study_

_Day_

Liz's feet made a hushed sound against the carpet in the silent room. The green glass lamps still glowed softly; the tank along one wall still diffused its blue light over the bookstands in front of it. The heaps of parchment and books and curiosities were still in their places, the warm scent of age and dust and old paper hovering around them.

And yet it felt so _empty_.

The phonograph that had always played old records gently in the background was silent. There was no whisper of water moving in the tank, no crackle of the fire that had long since burned itself into soft ashes.

It was these absences, things that had always been present, that told Liz that Professor Broom was not going to walk around a corner leaning on his cane and beaming at her, a cup of tea in his hand. That told her she was not going to walk around a statue and find him reading in his favorite chair, his glasses perched on his nose.

That told her he was gone.

Liz paused in front of the bronze fireplace dish, just before the steps. All the forensic equipment and markers were gone. Even the bloodstained carpet had disappeared, replaced as soon as the forensics team had finished collecting evidence. Without the path worn into its thick pile by the Professor's feet the rectangular area of red carpet was blank and bare, a painful reminder of his absence.

She had come back to the BPRD just in time to see him. Just in time for one last hug and welcoming smile from the man that had been like a father to her. To Hellboy. To them all.

Liz shook her head slowly, her eyes closed, and sank down to sit on the stairs. The pyrokinetic's pale fingers knotted themselves together, twisting helplessly.

No one had been in this room—his room—since that night. They couldn't bear it. With the Professor gone something disquieting lingered here. Perhaps because they all knew that standing here they would wonder what had happened. As yet no one had asked Abe to look, and the fish-man had not brought up the subject.

Liz wasn't sure she wanted to know, or even wonder about it. And so she, like everyone else, had avoided going into the Professor's study. But after hours of aimlessly wandering the hallways and finding herself again and again standing before the gleaming metal doors she had summoned the courage to touch the door handle, to walk inside, to disturb the silence.

She felt like she had come in here looking for something. She didn't know what. She didn't know what she had expected to find.

Maybe a note, a hint, some clue about what to do next. Where to go next.

Liz looked around. It was a big room and she had no idea what she was looking for.

A cold glow caught her eye…that light…what was it? Maybe the computer screen to the side of the desk? Curious, she went over to it, glancing briefly at two shreds of paper under the scanner. On the screen was a program that did computer enhancement; it had filled in the two scraps of paper on the scanner. Liz peered at the image. Writing. Russian. Other than the number sixteen she couldn't read it.

_But Professor Broom must have,_ Liz thought, her heartbeat speeding up. _He must have researched it. _Her dark eyes darted over to his desk and she rifled through the papers on it, then opened every drawer and rummaged through them. Nothing.

"It has to be close by…" She spotted a bookstand in front of the bronze dish that served as a fireplace. She hurried towards it. "Maybe…a book…"

A dusty volume was open on the stand. Her eyes flicked over a woodcut of Grigory Rasputin, then scanned the page.

"Sixteen…sixteen…where are you," Liz murmured. Then she saw it. "His mausoleum is at Sebastian Plackba number sixteen." Liz smiled, her eyes prickling with tears. "Thank you," she whispered, looking upwards.

She knew where to go now.

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Evening_

It was unusually quiet in the BPRD. No one seemed to speak above a whisper. Even footsteps were subdued, seemed not to echo as loudly as they used to. The hallways and rooms felt cold and empty, somehow dimmer and greyer, the life that had warmed them sucked off into the ether in the blink of an eye.

From one of the underground levels of the building came a soft, repetitive noise. Metal on concrete.

_Scrape. Scrape. Scrape._

_CLANK._

The bolt on the metal furnace door locked into place. Fingers gently tapped a button on the control panel and turned a dial to the extreme of its upper limits. There was a hiss as tongues of flame spouted from nozzles in the side of the furnace.

WOOSH.

Erica gazed through the small window in the furnace door, watching without emotion as the heap of globular Sammael eggs inside were engulfed by an inferno. The layers of the egg cases peeled away under the onslaught and the embryos inside twisted and convulsed in agony before exploding. The sides of the furnace blackened with a thick layer of carbon as the eggs quickly dissolved into ash.

A large team of heavily armed agents had been sent back to the subway tunnels to collect the eggs. They had found no trace of the Hell Hounds or their masters except for enormous piles of the subtly glowing Sammael spawn. Erica had watched the agents go; she had known instinctively that the tunnels would be empty. There was no reason for Grigory Rasputin and the others to linger.

They had done what they had come to do.

No.

_Kroenen_ had done it.

Blinking back angry tears Erica picked up a shovel and viciously stabbed the blade of it into an open crate of eggs, ignoring the resulting wet pops and the squirt of thick, foul smelling goo.

Karl. Ruprecht. Kroenen.

_Her wrist was raw and bleeding. She had wrenched it from the rope that bound her to her bed, unwilling to wait for the agent to finish cutting through it. He had broken in the door to get to her and roughly shaken her awake, babbling words that made little sense but spelled disaster._

_And here she was again in the autopsy room, her heart racing and muscles burning from the frantic run she didn't remember._

_She was horrified._

_Professor Broom's body had replaced Kroenen's on the table; there was a pool of scarlet beneath the soft snowy white hair. His head was turned away from her. In shock, blinking through tears, her eyes trailed downwards, were pulled inexorably down to his neck, somehow knowing what she would see and dreading to see it—_

_She reeled as she recognized the wound. Surgically precise. Clean. Quick._

_Kroenen._

_She backed away, sobbing brokenly. No__—no—he wouldn't—why would he—he wouldn't—_

But he _had_. Kroenen had killed Professor Broom. Her friend. Her _family_.

She should have raised the alarm the second she had found the clockwork assassin in her room. She should have known that he was following Rasputin's orders. She should have fought him until she broke every bone in his body or in her own.

…She shouldn't have kissed him…

With a snarl she brutally threw a shovelful of eggs into the next open furnace. The shovel descended on the crate of hellspawn again and the tiny embryos wriggled in vain inside their organic cages as she drove it unmercifully into their sticky mass like an avenging metal stake.

_God I want to kill him!_

Erica's fingers were clenched around the tool's shaft, white-knuckled with tension. Disposing of the eggs wasn't something she had to do; she had chosen to do it. The physical exertion was a poor focus for her restless, rage-born energy in comparison to the violent revenge she hungered for, but it was still an outlet. Her body automatically went through the motions, doing what had to be done, while her brain, which would have ideally remained focused and unthinking, was instead working on overdrive, thinking and calculating and considering. Invariably it brought her back to her grief and then to anger—which started the whole vicious cycle over again.

She paused for a moment and leaned on the shovel, closing her eyes and willing her anger to dissipate. She pushed it down with difficulty, imagined forcing it down her arms and legs; imagined it leaving through her toes. Long experience had reinforced again and again that revenge was best when one was calm enough to plan and enjoy it.

And rage was never a fitting partner for grief, for finding closure…

Closure. Professor Broom's funeral had yet to take place—it was scheduled for tomorrow morning. And once it was over she and the other Special Agents would have little time for mourning. Rasputin and the Ogdru Jahad would not wait for them.

The BPRD had a fight to win and they couldn't afford any distractions.

To that end a few agents had taken Brittany and Luke home yesterday morning. They had both been awakened the night before when the alarms in the medical bay, and then the entire building, started screaming. Even for non-agents that night had been hell. The two werewolves were quiet and tired looking when she met them to say goodbye. Little had passed between them: Luke's expression of sympathy, Brittany's muttered plan involving a stay at a friend's and a skateboarding accident to explain her absence and injuries to her parents, a brief hug or two, and then the car pulled away.

They would both be safer away from the BPRD.

Away from her.

Abe had not been so lucky.

Because of the events between her and the assassin in the subway tunnels and then in her room, Erica had not dared to go see the fish-man yet, but she had heard about his fight with Kroenen that had destroyed Abe's healing tank and demolished an entire section of the medical bay. Amazingly, the assassin hadn't hurt Abe; all of the fish-man's injuries had simply been reopened wounds from the day's mission underground. It was very strange. Erica wondered what had taken place between them; obviously Abe had sensed that Kroenen had murdered Professor Broom, but beyond that… no one knew. Abe had remained silent, even in the face of Manning demanding to know what had happened.

Abe's silence disturbed her. She wondered if it was to protect her, and if so, from what.

She tilted the shovel and a mound of Sammael eggs slid off with a squelching sound to join the others in the furnace. That was the last of them.

_Thud._

She pushed the heavy steel door closed and turned the wheel to bolt it shut. Erica pressed a button on the control panel and then turned away. She was done here. For a second as the explosive nova of fire flooded the furnace her silhouette was thrown up against the concrete wall in front of her.

Erica sighed. Calm once more and with her task complete she suddenly felt weary and drained, sadness again weighing heavily on her shoulders. She shook her head; as much as she wanted to curl up somewhere and not think about anything she was going to get cleaned up, and then she had something to do.

For the first time since the subway mission she was going to see Abe.

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Medical Bay_

_Night_

Abe tilted his feet slightly, adjusting his position in the water. The new healing tank was just as small as the last one and he periodically drifted into the walls, jarring the cybernetic healing unit wrapped around his chest.

The fish-man sighed heavily. He was alone. Not even Hellboy had come to see him since Professor Broom had been found murdered in his library. The demon blamed himself for his father's death and those of Agent Clay and the other men that had been lost underground, and he had locked himself in his room and refused to speak to anyone for the past two days. As for the other Special Agents, they had all quietly disappeared to some forgotten corner of the building.

For lack of anything else to do Abe watched as occasional bubbles floated upwards around him, their glass-like spheres dyed blue and red and green as they passed between him and the colored lights on the medical equipment outside the tank. The fish-man followed the bubbles' leisurely path with his eyes; they reached the surface and, one by one, silently popped out of existence.

As he continued to watch the stream of bubbles a quiet presence edged gradually into his awareness, followed soon after by an equally quiet voice.

"Hey."

It was Erica. Abe blinked, barely able to see her. She was standing in the shadow of a concrete column, almost one with the darkness created by the dim lighting. Slowly, Erica moved away from it and came towards him. Her grey eyes were sad.

"How are you feeling?" she asked. She sat down on the small black stool in front of his tank.

Abe gave her a weak smile, instinctively happy to have company at the same time a gloomy shadow settled over his heart at seeing her. The knowledge that Kroenen really, truly loved Erica was not nearly as devastating as the fact that she had accepted the assassin's advances. An unbidden image appeared, seared into his mind's eye: Erica in Kroenen's arms. For just a moment the fish-man felt her fingers run over thick scars he had never had on pale skin that was not his own. Abe's stomach heaved nauseously and he pushed the vision away, forcing himself to focus on her question.

"All things considered, fairly good," he lied.

Erica seemed to believe him. She glanced down at her lap, fumbling with a small object in her hands. "I…I brought something for you." She held up the object. It was his Rubik's cube.

"Oh! Thank you."

"I thought you might get bored in there… I could always bring some of your books, too… if you want…" she trailed off, her eyes now focused on a point somewhere between her boots. An awkward silence fell; unspoken words hovered in the air. Abe's stomach twisted. He knew what was coming even without reaching out to Erica's mind: the reason she had avoided him for days; the reason she could not bring herself to look at him now.

Erica sighed. "Abe…there's…there's something I need to tell you."

Abe decided to interrupt. There was no point in her telling him what he had already seen and felt against his will. "I already know," he said heavily.

"What?" she said, startled.

"Kroenen showed me everything that happened between you in your room," Abe said quietly. "And I was present in the furnace room long enough to guess at what I did not see."

Erica's grey eyes went wide with shock and dismay. She stared at Abe and swallowed thickly. As if to torment her further, ghost sensations of Kroenen's fingers ran through her hair; she seemed to hear his whisper, feel his breath caress her cheek, feel his tongue slide over her neck. Erica shuddered, suddenly drenched in cold as goosebumps raced over her flesh. _Mein Gott_, she thought. _Abe saw all of that?_

"Yes," he said softly, breaking in on her thoughts. Erica heard the pain in his voice and immediately felt lower than dirt. She wished she could take back what she had done. She wanted desperately to fix this; to erase that mournful expression from his dark eyes that cut her to her core.

"I… Abe… _I'm so sorry_."

Abe nodded. He could feel remorse radiating off of her in waves. Erica looked up at him with a pained expression. The fish-man knew she hadn't meant to hurt him; that it was tearing her up inside to know that she had. "I know," was all he could think to say.

"I wouldn't have—I wouldn't have—" she refused to say 'kiss'; it didn't matter that Abe already knew, "if I knew he was planning to— I had no idea he was going to kill—" she stopped abruptly, squeezing her eyes shut to hold back tears. One escaped and trickled slowly down her pale face. When her eyes opened again there was a dangerous spark flickering in their depths. She clenched her jaw, distorting the T-shaped scar on her cheek. On her lap her hands balled into white-knuckled fists. "I'm going to kill him," she vowed through gritted teeth, her voice harsh and thick from a combination of rage and holding back tears. "I don't know how, but I _will_ find a way. _I will kill him!_"

"Even though you love him?"

The quiet question caught her off-guard. Her eyes flew to Abe's face; he looked absolutely miserable. Guilt lanced through her chest as painfully as though she was being stabbed, followed by boiling anger at the clockwork man who had abused her trust—_tricked_ her.

"_He murdered Professor Broom! I HATE him!_" she yelled. Her voice was raw with fury.

Abe sighed; a few bubbles floated up from his mouth and gills. It hurt to tell her this, to admit it himself, but… The fish-man caught her gaze with his own. "Erica, you love him. There is no point in lying to me; beneath your anger you still care. Even if you refuse to admit it."

The fire in Erica's eyes flared as she prepared to argue, and then abruptly guttered. Her gaze turned inwards as though she was checking text written on her heart.

"And Kroenen loves you. As much as I do," Abe said. The words felt like they were tearing his heart out; as hard as he tried he could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. "And it is _only_ because of this and a mutual concern for your safety that I will honor his request."

Erica glanced up sharply. "Request? Kroenen asked _you_ for something?"

"He asked me to pass on a message to you. To tell you that whatever he may have done, however he may act, or things may appear, that you musttrust him."

"Ja, there's a good chance of that happening now," she said sarcastically.

"Erica, listen to me," Abe said, desperate to convince her. "Kroenen said he and I would have only one chance to save your life. I will not even try to speculate at the entire meaning behind his message, but…he was very sincere. It must be very important for him to have come to me. It is so important that he did not harm me when I attacked him. I…I think you should do as he said. _Please_."

Erica's heart softened a little as she met Abe's pleading eyes. _If it's to save me, and Kroenen was being sincere, and Abe's _sure_ about this…_

"I—I'll think about it, Abe," she said at last. "He killed Professor Broom—I can never forgive him for that. I just—I don't know."

"…Do you love me?" Abe asked. The tentativeness in his voice yanked at her soul and she moved closer, pressing her fingertips to the cool glass that prevented her hand from touching his cheek.

"_Yes_. Yes I do."

"Then do what it takes to come back alive. Even if that means trusting Kroenen for a little while." Abe paused, then added, "You can get back to killing him afterwards if you're still so inclined."

Erica smiled slightly at that. "We'll see."

"So what now?"

She looked up at him, confused by the question. "What do you mean?"

"What do you want me to tell everyone?"

"You mean you're not going to…?"

"Not if you don't want me to. Why do you think I didn't tell Manning anything until I could consult with you?" Abe asked. "This is just between us. I think it should stay that way. I don't exactly think this is something either of us wants on record."

Erica smiled wryly. "That's the truth." She paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts. _Only Abe and I can know what really happened_.

"We should tell them…"

XXXXX

_Three Days After Broom's Death_

_The BPRD_

_Offices_

_Day_

Manning threw a sheaf of paper down on his desk.

"I'm not buying it," he announced.

Myers looked up from his desk where he was dealing with paperwork on everything from repairing the hole Hellboy had knocked in the wall of his room the last time he had broken out to ordering litter for the demon's cats. 'Clumping, _no sand!_' was written in bold across the top of the letterhead in Hellboy's rough handwriting. Myers sighed. "What's that, sir?"

"I said I'm not buying it."

"Buying what?"

Manning gestured at the papers. "These reports Erica handed in!"

"What's wrong with them?" With the devastating recent events Myers couldn't blame the agent if she hadn't filled out the forms thoroughly. His hair was still wet from the rain at the funeral that morning.

"What's wrong with them? What's _wrong_ with them? Just listen to this!" Manning snatched up the top report. "This one's for the subway incident. 'After becoming separated from Agent Clay and Hellboy I was pursued by and fought with Kroenen. Hearing Agent Clay approaching he knocked me unconscious and then attacked him.'" Manning grabbed another, glancing meaningfully at Myers. "On the events surrounding the Professor's death: 'Kroenen surprised and attacked me in my room; eventually he injected me with an emergency sedative. Apparently this was to prevent me from intervening in his plan to murder Professor Broom.'" Manning slammed both papers down and leaned forward on his desk. "Like I said. _Not. Buying. It._"

Myers blinked.

"Don't you see?"

The agent shook his head, shrugging. "Not really."

"It's inconsistent! I'm a government bureaucrat; I _know_ consistent. She was like, what? Half dead after the thing with the Machen Library? Lost her ear phone, lost her utility belt and all the gear and weapons on it, damaged her locator—" Manning ticked them off on his fingers, "—all of which were expensive to replace— Now take these new ones: no loss or damage to equipment, escaped with minor injuries—have you seen these reports?!" Manning demanded, now pacing around the office, papers in hand.

"Um, briefly, but—"

"Then what's with the knocking out thing, huh? Isn't this the guy that wants her dead? Why bother with the, uh," Manning glanced down at the reports for reference, "The 'emergency sedative' if he could just kill her?"

"I don't know," Myers replied, silently praying for patience and deliverance from Manning's obnoxious voice and demeanor.

"Well I'll tell you what, I'm on to her little—her little game." Manning held a styrofoam cup under the dispenser on the espresso machine. He pushed a button and coffee slowly drizzled out of the machine like water from a sporadically leaky faucet. "She thinks I'm stupid…Uh uh. That's where she screwed up. _I _pay attention. Her little, uh, Nazi buddies show up again and suddenly everything goes straight to hell." He shook his head, blowing at the steam wafting off his watery coffee. "And you know why?" Manning looked left and right, and then glanced behind him. Seeing no one, he bent over Myers's desk and gestured for him to come closer.

With a barely disguised grimace Myers leaned forward. Still glancing left and right, Manning said in a lowered, conspiratorial voice, "Because Erica's _helping_ them."

"What—!" Myers sputtered in disbelief.

"Once a traitor, always a traitor. We show up some place—Poof! The bad guys are there every time. Bunch of people get killed. I have to explain it all away."

Manning strode over to a television screen mounted on the wall and fiddled with a remote. "She's been tampering with evidence too. That knife thing from the Machen library? It's gone. Her access code opened the door. And then there's this." The television screen flickered and then steadied, displaying awkwardly filmed black and white security camera footage of a storage room. A figure that was unmistakably Erica skillfully picked the lock on the bulletproof glass case and then removed the blade inside. Manning paused the tape and pointed. "See…? Right there. Explain that away. If she was doing something legal why didn't she ask for the keys?"

_Maybe because it's faster than wasting a half hour waiting for a security guard to get around to opening the case,_ Myers thought.

Manning mused for a few moments, tapping his fingers against his chin, and then seemed to come to a decision. "I have a special assignment for you."

Myers was half-afraid to hear it. "And what would that be? Sir?"

"To watch her of course! She does anything weird, suspicious—you report back to me." Manning paused and then nodded fervently for emphasis; clearly he was already mentally basking in the idea of the accolades he would receive for heading an operation to catch a double agent. "Only me. None of this gets out to anyone else. Got it?"

"Yes. Got—got it."

Manning gave him an over-exaggerated wink and then took a sip of coffee as he turned and walked away. "Ow! Damn it! _Hot!_"

_Yeah, I'll get right on that assignment, _Myers thought, rolling his eyes in exasperation at the ravings of his superior. _Because it's definitely a good idea to spy on someone who spends every night disemboweling huge monsters._

He turned back to his paperwork on kitty-litter. After a moment he felt his eyes drawn up to the frozen frame on the TV. Something niggled at the back of his mind as he looked at it; he hadn't trusted Erica when he had initially found out she had been a Nazi assassin, and a high-ranking one at that, to judge by what he had subsequently discovered while reading her BPRD file. And even if Manning was being overly paranoid, he was right about it being suspicious that there had been two _perfect_ opportunities for Kroenen to kill Erica and he hadn't. That didn't necessarily mean she was a traitor…just that something odd was going on. Myers glanced at the screen again.

_Then again…it couldn't hurt to keep an eye out…_

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Erica's Room_

_Night_

"'I'll be in charge this time.' Who does he think he's kidding?" Erica muttered.

She was less than happy about the meeting Manning had held earlier in the evening to brief the agents for the mission to Russia. Not only did he keep staring at her when he thought she wasn't looking—and God only knew why—but Manning _lead?_ What did he know about being in the field? The man sat in an office all day drinking coffee and reaming paperwork down his assistants' throats! At least Hellboy was still going, which meant he would be able to take over when Manning inevitably screwed up. She could only pray most of the team would survive his mistake.

Shaking her head, Erica dumped an armload of clothing and equipment onto her bed and started stuffing it into the two small pieces of luggage she was allowed; one suitcase for clothes, one backpack for field work. There wasn't really that much: just her cold weather clothes, an extra set of pants and a shirt, some standard-issue supplies, and then her weapons. It wasn't like they were planning on an extended stay in Moscow. Either they would defeat Rasputin or—well, she wouldn't need the extra clothes.

She finished packing and gazed down at the open bags, going through a mental checklist. Satisfied, she zipped them shut and hauled them over to the door. It would be an early start for them in the morning and, unlike Hellboy who always waited until the last minute to pack and invariably forgot something, she would be ready with time to spare. Maybe even enough to visit Abe again before they had to leave.

Stifling a yawn, she turned back to her bed and saw something glimmering on top of her red quilt. She had almost forgotten. Erica picked up the baton sword and gave it a few slow experimental spins, watching light flash and dance along its length and particularly over the engraved script '_Alles für Deutschland_'. Perfectly balanced, but she would have expected nothing less from Kroenen. It was the blade he had left behind at the Machen library. She thought it would be nice to have an extra. One should always be prepared.

Particularly since Grigory Rasputin had not struck her dead yet. _Unlike Professor Broom,_ she thought sadly. For a second she closed her eyes and could still see the hearse pulling away in the grey morning light. _I'm the only one left from the group that stopped Rasputin last time._

Something was obviously waiting for her in Russia. Erica had no doubt that it was death, and a horrific one at that. She knew why the black stone block in the basement of the mansion had been draped in chains.

Something was waiting for Hellboy, too. Something that would lead to the release of the Ogdru Jahad, the Seven Gods of Chaos. Even now they stirred in their crystal prison in the abyss, impatiently waiting to claim Earth and burn the heavens. They would bring unimaginable destruction with them: Ragnarok, the Apocalypse.

The BPRD couldn't allow that to happen.

She abruptly flipped the baton sword forward and slashed it through the air at head height. The blade's high-pitched song as it whistled through its arc gave testament to its lethally sharp edge. _Good_, she thought. _Clean decapitation is the key_. _That should take care of Ilsa and any Sammaels._ Grigory Rasputin she wasn't so certain about. He should die like any other mortal man—but then again, the average mortal man didn't resurrect after being snapped in half and sucked into another dimension. As for Kroenen…

Erica sighed, remembering Abe's words. She had thought about them and realized he was right: despite her frustration with herself and her anger at Kroenen, she knew she still loved the assassin. She would not, could not kill him, but she would certainly never forgive him. And he would not escape from her unscathed, either—Kroenen would pay for his crime.

_Revenge of a less permanent nature is in order,_ she thought, her eyes contemplatively traveling the length of the steel blade she held.

She knew harming him would do her little good—the assassin _enjoyed_ pain, got a serious R-rated endorphin rush off of it for God's sake! Not only would he probably find her efforts amusing, but his thoughts would almost surely be the complete opposite of repentant. Erica scowled. It was practically impossible to punish someone who perceived pain as a pleasurable, desirable reward. But that didn't mean she wouldn't try. She knew wounds of enough severity would put him in agony, but since that would make him useless to her in Russia she would have to settle—at least for now—for irritating him by doing damage that would be time consuming and inconvenient for him to repair. Maybe something to his back...

Erica yawned again and blinked sleepily, then grinned wryly; messing around with knives was never a smart thing when you were tired, and since the team was already down two members because of Agent Clay's death and Abe's injuries, she was pretty sure they would want her in one piece for tomorrow.

She slid the baton sword into an extra sheath and then lay down on the bed, stretching out on her side with her arms wrapped around her pillow.

In a matter of moments she was asleep.

XXXXX

The first indication that something was wrong was that Erica knew she was sleeping. Her immaterial collection of consciousness stirred in the darkness, vaguely worried and slowly growing more awake. Lucid dreaming had never been a good thing; it always meant Grigory wanted something with her, or that disturbing Shadow Man… Erica felt an odd _push_ at the back of her head. She groggily turned to investigate it—

Her consciousness was abruptly pitched forward into the blackness.

Erica came violently awake in her dream, fear clawing at her stomach as she tumbled and plunged downwards, plummeting out of control—

And found herself standing up.

Breathing heavily, Erica blinked and dragged her eyes away from the dark, polished wood floor beneath her feet. She stared at her surroundings. It was her study from sixty years ago; a room she knew had burned along with the rest of the mansion in Germany.

She turned a slow circle, taking in the desk, the grandfather clock by the enormous fireplace, the ceiling-high bookshelves heaped with oddities and a multitude of hourglasses and other timepieces. Even the map of the constellations was in place, tacked to the ceiling above her head.

Strangely, all the clocks in the room were silent. Their hands were unmoving; their pendulums frozen in space mid-swing. The hourglasses, too, were suspended in time; their particles of sand hovered motionlessly, paused mid-fall.

The huge gothic window across the room drew her attention next. Erica approached it, shuddering. The blood-red curtains were parted and window looked out on a thick blackness darker and more empty than night. Her breath fogged the glass as she peered outside and Erica moved slightly to the left to see around it—and paused, staring at her dim reflection in the glass which showed her wearing a familiar peaked cap with a silver skull and crossbones leering at her from its place just above the brim. Reflexively she glanced down at her clothes. Gone were her pajamas, replaced by her Nazi uniform and trench coat, down to the Iron Cross and her own peculiar configuration of belts and baton sword sheaths. Erica's skin crawled where it came in contact with the fabric and leather, disturbed by the wrongness of being back in these clothes at the same time it recognized them and yearned to relax into their comfort. She shivered again.

Behind her she detected slight movements as time began again, releasing the clocks and hourglasses from their standstill.

_Tick_…_tick_…_tick_…

Erica froze, the back of her neck prickling. Mixed in among the soft sounds of falling sand and swinging pendulums was the ominous ticking of _very_ familiar clockwork.

Anger shot through her veins and her heart began to drum loudly in her chest. Instinctively Erica stood perfectly still, her eyes flicking over the surface of the glass in front of her. It was dark; the room was too weakly lit to give her a reflection of the space behind her.

_Shit_, Erica cursed, gritting her teeth. She stared blindly at the blackness outside the window, her attention focused hyper sensitively on the rhythmic, harsh exhales she had to strain to hear. They were somewhere behind her. Close.

_Hisss_…

She felt his eyes boring into her back and her stomach clenched. Precaution and pretense were useless, then; Hitler's top assassin would miss _nothing_. He surely knew that she had noticed his presence.

_Damn it! Abe and I should have tried harder to remove that beacon that lets him into my dreams_, she fumed. Erica's hands ached to wrap around the handles of her baton swords. Her nerves were on fire, her body tensed and coiled to spring; anticipation and fury were making her sick.

_Whirr…tick…_

She could bear it no longer. Erica whirled around, wrenching her blades from their sheaths as she turned.

Kroenen stood beside the desk, silhouetted against the fire in the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back. To compliment the setting's illusion of her study he too was wearing his black SS uniform; the leather lapels of his jacket and trench coat lay smartly flat against his chest, displaying the embroidered rank on his collar. Below the peaked hat his mask's black glass eyes were fixed on her. The lenses glinted eerily in the dim light, their edges flickering with pale reflected flames.

For a moment Erica paused and stared at him, her mind flooded with many, many memories of the six years they had spent together during the Second World War; of the odd platonic relationship they had shared that had always tantalizingly remained on, but never quite crossed, the edge of the erotic.

The memories shattered as her eyes fell on the baton swords strapped to his muscular thighs.

"_Murderer_," Erica hissed accusingly, her voice harsh. She gripped the cold hilts of her blades tightly and held them ready at her sides. "I thought I told you to stay the _fuck_ out of my head!"

"Hypocrite. You are responsible for more than a few corpses," the assassin said quietly. His words stung her like a slap to the face. "And regardless of what you may have said, you have little choice in the matter. I thought it wise to talk to you." The _Totenkopf_ skull insignia on Kroenen's peaked cap gleamed as he nodded towards her blades. "I see I made the right decision. Put those away."

She shifted, sliding her feet farther apart for better stability as she held her stance, ready to attack. "_Nein!_"

"Very well," he said obligingly. With deadly elegance Kroenen moved away from the desk and came towards her, unfolding from his at-ease posture like a venomous snake letting out its coils. She heard the whisper of leather as the thick folds of his long coat fell against his body and brushed together. The clockwork man cocked his head at Erica, watching as she raised her blades as he drew nearer. He instantly stopped his approach.

"Erica…" he murmured, "do you truly desire to kill me more than you wish to live?"

She quivered with suppressed anger. "No," she said at last. She lowered her baton swords a little to indicate that he was in no immediate danger. For now.

"Then what do you _desire?_"

His voice was like a silky caress full of alluring, dark promises. Erica involuntarily blushed at his implied offer, suddenly unable to shake the memory of his leather-clad hands roaming her body, or the sensation of his tongue playing over the tendon along her throat.

"I—I—" her voice shuddered and she mentally cursed him for it, imagining the satisfied smirk spreading across his mutilated face beneath the smooth ebony mask. He knew what he was doing to her and she had no doubt that he was enjoying it.

Erica shook her head and pulled herself together. She knew she couldn't kill Kroenen in this dream-place, and she didn't want to, but she knew he could feel pain.

And she was going to inflict as much of it on him as humanly possible. Even if the injuries would only hurt his dream-form and not his real body.

She clenched her teeth in resolve and raised her blades threateningly. "I don't want to kill you; I want to hurt you. As much as you have hurt me."

The assassin went deadly still.

"If it is a fight you want, my Angel, _you will get it_."

_You're damn right I will_.

Erica didn't give the assassin a chance to arm himself. She _lunged_.

Her first blow glanced off the back of his raised arm, the baton sword forcefully deflected by the sheathed wrist blade secured there and hidden by his coat. Kroenen's other arm snatched at her—she skillfully ducked under it, aiming to get behind him and swiping her blade at his lower ribs as she went. Steel sliced cleanly through leather and skin and then halted abruptly when it lodged in bone. The assassin grunted in pain. Triumph surged through Erica and driven by avenging bloodlust she drove the sword deeper as she spun around to face his back—and without hesitation plunged her other blade into the flesh and taut muscles beside his vertebrae. The blade was angled up; it went deep, burying its length in him.

For a moment Kroenen was caught, immobilized in an awkward hunched position, impaled on the twin steel knives that crossed over each other inside his ribcage. White sand poured in thin streams from gaps between the assassin's skin and the polished silver surface of the baton swords; the dusty rivers widened into waterfalls that cascaded down his black clothing as he inhaled raggedly and his chest expanded, enlarging the gashes. Erica could feel the vibrations of his clockwork heart resonating down the baton swords' shafts and into her hands. A satisfied, wicked smile curled the corners of her lips. She hoped he hurt. She hoped he was suffering.

_That was for you, Professor Broom_, she thought.

And then she tore free, yanking her blades out in a swiftly executed turn that directed the slashing razor edges across Kroenen's back once more before she retreated out of reach behind the desk.

The clockwork assassin wasted no time in coming for her.

Erica's grin broadened.

Oddly, as he ran at her Kroenen did not draw his own blades or extend the ones on his wrists. Erica didn't care. It was his mistake, and she would show him no mercy for it. Her purpose-driven fury increased her focus and seemed to heighten her senses; she saw the subtle changes in the way his legs bore his weight, the coiling of muscles to unleash a huge amount of energy, and in a split second foresaw what would come next and moved directly into his path—

—Kroenen's left hand reached out and he gripped the edge of the desk, carrying him up as he vaulted it. Erica instinctively flipped her right baton sword forward and braced herself for impact—Kroenen's weight crashed into the blade and it took him dead center in the chest. The assassin's momentum carried him forward and he slid jerkily down the baton sword; its tip came out his back below his neck and between his spine and shoulder. He came to an abrupt halt, impaled to the hilt. Erica gazed at him grimly, her arm aching from the impact and the strain of holding him there like a spider skewered in an insect collection.

Without pause Kroenen grabbed her by the throat. His other hand wrapped around her right hand in a crushing grip, holding her arm in place and pressing her fingers tightly and painfully against the hilt. In a flash, realizing that Kroenen had purposefully allowed her to run him through so he could get close to her, Erica quickly brought her other blade up to the side of his neck.

They were caught at an impasse, standing so close their chests brushed as they breathed. Erica stared defiantly back as she gazed into the cold vacuums of his lenses, that dark, unseen gaze that never left her eyes; that held her, transfixed, compelling her to back down. _No chance in hell_, she thought. She snarled at him and drew her free arm back to stab him in the shoulder—Kroenen drove his thumb sharply into the artery beside her windpipe, cutting off blood flow to her brain. Her body's reaction was instantaneous and crippling: her vision blacked out into grey and white static and her limbs went numb and floppy. Her free arm fell to hang by her side and her knees shook uncontrollably, only still supporting her because the assassin's grip on her neck prevented her from falling—

Kroenen removed his thumb and blood rushed into her head so fast it was painful; another wave of dizziness swept through her, buckling her knees and fuzzing out her vision again as it went.

"_Uhn_…" Erica moaned.

Disoriented, her slowly clearing eyes fell on the clockwork assassin's mask staring down at her in warning. His leather-clad fingers tensed threateningly around her neck. Too groggy to fight, she resentfully decided to surrender—if only for the few minutes it would take her to recover. She left her free arm hanging at her side. In return Kroenen slightly relaxed his grip on her throat; not tight enough to strangle, but tight enough to ensure she would not move.

And then he pushed back and down on her right hand, forcibly withdrawing the baton sword from his body. Little by little he moved back from her as he pushed; smoothly sliding his body off of the blade to aid in the slow process. Sand gushed from the hole just below his sternum, sending up a cloud of fine powder. All the while his gaze never left her own. Erica could feel her fingers bruising, squashed beneath his mechanical ones, but still couldn't tear away from his hypnotic gaze whose depths seemed to assure her that she would soon regret what she had done. She welcomed it. Let him fight her; he would only make her angrier, only increase her determination to hurt him—

The last inch of the blade's steel slipped free of Kroenen's chest.

She didn't even have a chance to move; the second she registered it he was on her, had seized both her wrists in a grip of iron. The world was a spinning blur and then her back crashed into the edge of a piece of furniture. Kroenen's steely grip crushed her wrists as he pinned them to the desk, holding her blades away from him. Anger made her reckless; she almost laughed at the pain and the triumph of having goaded him into giving her what she wanted. But then, nothing happened.

Kroenen simply held her still; there was nothing of menace or true violence about him.

"Allow me to rephrase that," Kroenen said sternly, leaning down so his metal mask was only inches from her face, "you will get a fight, but it will be directed at the correct people, and not at those who love you."

She glared up at the empty circles of darkness that hid his eyes. "You killed Professor Broom," she grated out.

"_Grigory Rasputin_ killed your Professor. It was not something _I_ planned; it was not something _I_ wanted. I could follow orders and risk your hatred but have the smallest chance of saving your life, or I could rebel and reveal myself as a traitor, condemning you and me and Professor Bruttenholm instantly to death. Blame the mad monk and the Ogdru Jahad, not yourself or I," Kroenen said bitterly. "And if it is pain you wish to speak of, remember that I have caused you a fraction of the pain you caused me not so long ago. Remember that I have betrayed your trust like you betrayed mine. Neither of us wanted to do it, but both of us had to. We are even."

Kroenen watched as Erica gazed at him silently, contemplating his words. No doubt she was reaching out to him through their blood bond, testing to see if what he had said was true. It was; no matter how much his Angel of Death might want to deny it. Truth, he knew, often hurt, but it could also free. Perhaps now that she knew his reasons for murder she would still let him help her…

Slowly, Erica shook her head from side to side. In disbelief? In regret? In grief for the friend he had killed to save her? Erica closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her hands flexed slightly beneath his fingers and Kroenen braced himself, expecting her to struggle. Instead she dropped her blades. They hit the wooden floorboards with a metallic clatter. Erica opened her eyes again, her expression calmer, her anger replaced by a very grudging acceptance.

"_Damn_ you Kroenen…" she murmured. "I understand why you did what you did. But I can't forgive you. Not this time."

"I was not expecting you to," he replied. Now that the fight had gone out of Erica's eyes he released his death-grip on her wrists. "All I ask is that you trust me." Kroenen paused, and then added with a faint trace of hope. "And, if you still can, love me."

Her face was grim. "Only if you promise me two things."

"Name them."

"That you will never kill any of my friends or family so that I can live. Their lives are worth just as much as mine."

Kroenen hesitated. Beyond disliking the narrowing of options to deal with unforeseen future problems there was always the issue of the fish-boy. If it would not have further complicated things with Erica he would have gladly carved Abe into fish food the night he had been inside the BPRD. Though Erica's condition did not really apply to the jealousy-induced situation, the assassin now realized that he would not get away with murdering a second of her friends. Kroenen's self-maimed features contorted into a ghastly frown of frustration. He had come up with such interesting and imaginative ways to torture and kill the amphibious creature, too. His shoulders slumped in disappointment. Oh well, harmlessly tormenting Abe might prove to be more entertaining and more of a creative challenge. And perhaps Erica would soon tire of her other lover. After all, and he smirked, thinking of it, he had so much more to offer her than that overgrown guppy.

"Agreed," he said reluctantly. "And the other?"

"You and I are going to _destroy_ Rasputin."

Erica's grey eyes were dark with hatred. Behind his mask, Kroenen's eternal death's head grin twisted into a grotesque, wicked smile of anticipation. It had been so long since he had seen her kill. "Believe me, I look forward to it."

"You won't have to wait long. We're leaving for Russia tomorrow."

"I was expecting as much." The clockwork assassin paused and wrapped his arms loosely around her slender waist, then inclined his head meaningfully. "And so was Grigory."

"Hmmm. That's not good." Lost in thought, Erica bit her lip and unconsciously leaned into the assassin's embrace; much to his delight. "It's never a good sign when the enemy can predict your actions." Her brow furrowed for a moment and then she turned her attention back to him. "I suppose it's too much to ask you what's going to happen. I know Hellboy is involved—"

Kroenen held a finger to her lips to quiet her. "Nein. My Master would know I had betrayed him. Besides, _traitor_," Kroenen said with a subtle, affectionate hiss, "You already know part of what is planned." He dropped his hand so it lay over her heart; he could just barely feel the pulse of the beating organ that lay beneath her shirt and skin.

Erica cringed. For a split second she was back in that cavern of snow and ice with the newly resurrected Grigory Rasputin standing before her, naked and coated in hot blood that steamed in the frigid air.

"_I want this done properly," he said, a hungry, disturbing expression on his face as he turned his eyeless sockets on her. "Death is too good for her. The Ogdru Jahad _will_ have their sacrifice."_

They wanted to kill her and annihilate her soul in the process. No incantation or ritual, no matter how dark and depraved, could bring her back then. It would be as though she had never existed.

"Mein Gott… And how do we get around that?"

Kroenen stroked her hair comfortingly; his gloved hands snaked smoothly through her chestnut tresses. "You trust me." He laughed, but it was a mirthless, wry sound. "I am, after all, your executioner."

Erica paled and looked up at him sharply, her hands tightening on his back in nervous reflex. "You have no idea how frightening it is to be standing on the victim side of that statement," she said seriously.

The assassin laughed again, this time with real amusement. "Ja, the turnabout is interesting, is it not? You never were much of a willing victim; you were always too strong-willed for that. Whether it was combat training or clockwork modifications or chess, you were always fighting me," Kroenen mused approvingly. He trailed his thumb along the T-shaped scar on her left cheek. "And I suggest that you continue to do so."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Is that supposed to be an incredibly vague hint about what to do in Moscow?"

"Ja…" he trailed off, sounding distracted. His body did not move but he turned his head along his shoulder, mirroring the silver eagle emblem adorning the peak of his hat. She felt his lean, powerfully built body tense in her arms like tightening steel hawsers.

"What is it?" Erica asked, concerned.

"I must go. My Master has business to conduct and preparations to complete before you and the other BPRD agents arrive."

"No more hints?"

Slick, cool leather slid along her jaw as Kroenen tilted her face up to him with a gloved finger, exactly the way he used to so long ago. Erica felt warmth spread through her as he gazed down at her with pride. "You are my Angel of Death, murderer and assassin and traitor," he murmured softly. "You bested even me once. I have no doubt in your abilities. _Auf Wiedersehen_."

She blinked and the dream winked out of existence.

Wide awake, her heart pounding from his lingering touch, Erica sat up in the darkness of her room and swung her legs over the edge of her bed. She stayed like that, listening to the sound of her own breathing in the silence.

After a time she glanced over at the green, glowing numbers on her digital clock.

6:59 a.m.

In a few moments the alarm would go off and it would be time to get up and prepare to leave.

She would be a fool to deny that she was afraid of what was coming. Her fear made her strong. She knew what they had lost and what they could lose, and that made her all the more determined.

Now, more than ever, she was ready.

Erica wanted this fight.

And, God help her, she was going to kick Rasputin's sorry ass back into his grave and make sure he _stayed_ there.

Author's Notes: Please review; I value all comments and suggestions.


	21. A Nest of Vipers

**Chapter 21: A Nest of Vipers**

Disclaimer: You know the drill: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz and the plot that isn't from the movie are mine.

Author's Notes: Hello again! Thank you for your reviews! Long time no update…well, to make up for it, this chapter is extra long. So sit back and hold on, because it's going to be a bumpy ride.

"There are things that we don't want to happen but have to accept, things we don't want to know but have to learn, and people we can't live without but have to let go. "—Author Unknown

"Courage is being scared to death—but saddling up anyway."—John Wayne

"I cannot tell

The hound's intent

Till he has sprung

At my bare hand

With teeth or tongue.

Meanwhile I stand

And wait the event."—Robert Francis, "The Hound"

_Moscow_

_Sebastian Plackba #16_

_Rasputin's Mausoleum_

_Day_

Thickening blood glistened like carelessly scattered rubies.

It steamed in the frigid air. On the floor, on the walls, on motionless bodies.

It dripped down the smooth surface of a gasmask.

A trickle rolled over one of the mask's glass eyepieces. The Nazi assassin tracked its unhurried course with his lidless blue eyes.

Crimson red. _Beautiful_.

Too bad that he did not have the proper amount of time to savor it.

The Russian men strewn about so haphazardly, their bodies fallen in mangled, horribly twisted attitudes of death, had been hired to transport some heavy cargo. One crate had contained the black stone block retrieved from the ruins of the mansion in Germany. Inside the other was Grigory Rasputin's most recent acquisition:

_The fleshy Russian General gestured at the open mouth of the cargo container. Many historical treasures surrounded it, piled unsystematically inside the military base's warehouse—Old Master paintings, tanks, gilded furniture, sculpted busts, ornate carriages—but Rasputin had eyes only for the towering object before him: a massive stone monolith of polished white marble. _

_Florescent lights set into the walls of the cargo container hummed and buzzed as they flickered into life._

_The General's dark-green military coat swished around his knees as he approached the container; he stepped inside, passing the soldiers who stood smartly at attention holding the doors open. Grigory, Ilsa, and Kroenen followed; their footsteps and Ilsa's high heels just barely warped the metal beneath their feet, making a loud metallic sound in the enclosed space._

"_Twenty tons of stone," General Lapikov told them. His voice was strongly accented by his native tongue. "This thing fell from the sky into Tungaska forest."_

"_June 30th, 1908," Grigory replied, standing before the stone. He spoke quickly, reciting from memory. Reflections flashed across his rectangular wrap-around sunglasses as he examined the marble. "It burned hundreds of square miles of forest. The Romanovs took possession of it immediately. The Czar guarded it jealousy. I have wanted it for ages."_

_Grigory's bare fingers brushed over the monolith's smooth, perfect surface, lingering beside two circular imprints at its center. Imprints, Kroenen knew, that matched the shape of Anung-un-Rama's four-fingered stone hand._

"_Now, finally, it is mine."_

_There was a popping noise as Ilsa opened the latches of the chrome box she held._

"_You are aware, of course, there's no way you will get it out of Russian territory," Lapikov cautioned._

_Out of his peripheral vision Kroenen saw the red blur of a fur coat as Ilsa stepped forward. "He is aware," she said curtly. She swung the box's lid open, revealing stacks of tiny gold bars neatly arranged in gleaming ranks nestled among black packing foam. Each bar was stamped with a swastika. "Our guests are coming in."_

_The General just barely restrained himself from snatching the box from her hands. He snapped the latches closed and held the box possessively against his chest. _

"_It's a pleasure doing business with you. Perhaps you have other interests?" he added eagerly, his voice a naked display of avarice._

"_Enjoy the bright metal you've earned. There will be no further transactions." Slowly, as though drawn across his face with a scalpel, Grigory's lips split into an ironic, curling smile. "Only closure."_

"_We will, however, require some men to transport our purchase to an undisclosed location," Ilsa announced. She held up a small clear plastic bag, dangling it temptingly within Lapikov's reach. A generous quantity of gold bars clinked inside it. "No questions asked, of course."_

_General Lapikov smiled knowingly as he accepted the bag. He tilted his head forward in a slight bow. "Of course."_

The men had delivered the stone blocks to the cemetery and set them in place inside the mausoleum with the help of some mechanical devices. True to Lapikov's word the men said nothing but what was absolutely necessary, though their eyes had betrayed their curiosity. When they had completed their task Kroenen had simply killed them. Routine. Swift. _Boring_. No time to explore the nuances of the assassin's art joined in unholy union to the surgeon's skill and meticulousness.

But then, such things were better saved for more deserving victims. The General's men had been bought with gold like the greedy pigs they were and had died slaughtered like swine. But instead of their butchered meat going to market, it would go no further.

Kroenen watched with detached interest as a Sammael slowly materialized from the shadows and started to eat one of the bodies, pinning it down with one huge, gnarled, three-fingered hand as it ripped off chunks with its teeth and messily gulped them down. Shreds of flesh and tendons trailed from its mouth.

This was a graveyard. If the Sammaels did not finish devouring them the remains of eight more men would make no discernable addition to the thousands that already rotted beneath the ground. Doubtlessly several more corpses would join them before Rasputin's second attempt to release the Seven Gods of Chaos was complete.

Kroenen was determined that his Angel of Death would not be among them.

He tilted his head back and gazed skyward past the drying blood on his mask's lenses and the edges of the broken dome above him. Heavy grey clouds the color of Erica's eyes massed overhead. It looked like snow.

No matter; he knew it would not stop the BPRD from coming.

So far everything was going smoothly. Just like clockwork.

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Noon_

They were late.

Communication issues had resulted in problems with obtaining clearance and equipment, a predicament that had set them back by more than a few hours. Manning had spent them yelling into the phone at various people until, as he had put it, "stuff had gotten done".

Bureaucratic red tape aside, Hellboy and his complete lack of packing skills were not exactly helping the situation.

_Scheiße!__Crap! Owch!_

Erica sprinted through the deserted hallways of the BPRD. For what felt like the umpteenth time over the course of her run the heavy steel case she was carrying swung on its handle and smacked her painfully in the knee.

_Damn it! How the _hell_ could HB possibly forget the Samaritan?_ she thought in exasperation, referring to Hellboy's huge custom-made handgun. _We're going on a fate-of-the-world determining mission against a mad monk and replicating Hell Hounds, not a trip to the candy store—!_

Honestly, she didn't know how Agent Clay, God rest his soul, had done it. Not that Myers was doing a bad job; he just had some really big shoes to fill.

She quickly crossed the empty expanse of the aircraft hangar. Everyone else was either already onboard the airplane or had gone back to their desks and cups of watered down coffee. Erica shoved the small side door open and stepped out onto the tarmac, squinting against the bright light as she breathed heavily, inhaling the cool, crisp autumn air that made her lungs tingle and her throat raw.

Glancing around to orient herself she took a running step towards the airplane with the BPRD symbol stenciled on its side—and came to an abrupt halt as she detected an odd tickle in the back of her head like a feather inside her skull.

_Kroenen?_ Erica thought instinctively, coming instantly alert.

But to her surprise instead of seeing the clockwork assassin appear in her mind's eye she felt the strange, ghostly sensation of a pair of damp, finned arms wrapping around her in an embrace accompanied by the press of another body against her front. A body that was not present; the sensations were only in her mind.

"_You didn't come to say goodbye,_" Abe said softly, the rise and fall of his voice reminding her of the cool caress of water. His voice started off warm, almost touching, but ended with a gentle heaviness that was distinctly sad.

"_Oh… ja… I'm sorry,_" Erica thought back. She genuinely was. For so many things.

She had pretended to be too caught up in making preparations to leave so she could avoid visiting Abe this morning, if only in a futile attempt to prevent him from knowing about her conversation with Kroenen last night. Or more specifically, to save him the pain of knowing that shortly after impaling Broom's murderer she had hugged him instead; had let Kroenen touch her and enjoyed it. But since she knew, now Abe did too. There was a waver in his thought-presence; a ripple of uncertainty and sadness. Oddly, it also felt like Abe had expected this in some way.

The fish-man did not ask her to explain her actions and Erica made no attempt to justify them—he could see her memories, after all. He knew the truth. Knew that she had told Kroenen she could still love him despite what he had done.

Abe was not surprised. He had been the one to point out to her that she still loved the assassin. But she could tell without a doubt that the fact she had _told_ Kroenen this had hurt the fish-man deeply; here where their thoughts and emotions were completely naked to each other his pain came across to her as a throbbing, aching wound.

The sharp, stomach-twisting guilt Erica felt for having caused Abe yet more emotional pain was felt by them both. Apologizing again just felt uselessly redundant.

Especially when they both knew that she only regretted hurting Abe—not what she had done.

"_You will… you will come back, won't you?_" Abe sounded tentative, almost strained.

Erica thought it was an odd question; it wasn't like she was going to _let_ Grigory Rasputin kill her.

"_Of course I will_," she assured him. Sensing that the conversation was drawing to a close, Erica started to tell him goodbye and unthinkingly said, "_Auf __Wiedersehen._"

She felt Abe pause.

There was a fleeting moment where she sensed his furrowed brow and frown of confusion that she had accidentally responded to him the way she normally would to Kroenen. Erica's stomach twisted wrenchingly at the mistake, but it was too late to say something different; the words hung there in the space between her thoughts and Abe's, an immaterial and flimsy barrier that did more to separate them than any real obstacle ever could. It was as though those simple words had drawn a line in the sand between their feet that was as insurmountable as an abyss.

Faltering and unsure how to fix what she had done, Erica decided that under the circumstances she should go before she inadvertently managed to do even more damage.

"_Erica._"

In the act of withdrawing her connection to his mind, she halted, waiting.

"_I will always love you._"

The simple declaration caught her completely off guard. She couldn't breathe; her chest suddenly felt too tight.

"_Whatever you choose for your life—_whomever_ you choose to spend it with—I will support it… I just want you to be happy_," Abe murmured. There was something raw in his voice that tore at Erica's soul. Even though she knew the fish-man would argue the impossibility of a marine creature expressing emotion in such a way, she could not help but picture Abe's dark, almond shaped eyes brimming with tears. That thought alone was enough to make her want to cry. She could feel her eyes prickling, threatening to flood with hot salty water that would overflow and spill down her cheeks. Her lips twisted uncontrollably as she fought to keep some measure of composure, knowing she was standing in broad daylight on the BPRD's airstrip where anyone could see the Angel of Death weeping for what would seem to be no reason.

Blinking rapidly, she sniffled and took a deep breath to try to calm herself. It didn't do her much good. Knowing that Abe was still there in her mind, waiting for some sort of reply, she nodded, sniffled again, and then swallowed thickly before saying a quiet, hoarse, "_Okay_."

There was a delicate butterfly-wing-like flutter of gills against her throat as the fish-man briefly tightened his arms around her in a hug, and then his arms and presence withdrew, leaving her feeling drained and overwhelmed by a kaleidoscope of emotions that roiled crazily just beneath the surface of her face, cracking the composed mask she was trying so hard to keep intact.

"Hey! _Hey you!_" Manning yelled.

Erica was rudely jerked back to reality. She stared somewhat stupidly across the airfield at the BPRD's Head of Special Operations standing at the top of the loading ramp, his bald head gleaming merrily in the sunlight as he waved his arm back and forth to get her attention in what he probably imagined to be a dignified manner. Contrary to his intentions, the effect was completely ridiculous and somewhat akin to a wildly flailing marionette with stiff joints.

Seeing her looking in his direction Manning yelled again, clearly irritated. "_Yes, YOU!_ Come on—plane's leaving!"

Suddenly Erica became aware again of the weight of the metal container dangling from her hand.

_Oh, right, _she thought, remembering her errand._ Hellboy's gun._

With her heart hanging heavy in her chest, she walked towards the airplane.

XXXXX

_The BPRD_

_Medical Bay_

_Day_

Abe opened his eyes and was met by the boring pale blue confines of his healing tank. The melancholy color did nothing to dispel the sadness weighing heavily on his heart.

His talk with Erica had not gone as planned. When he had told her to trust Kroenen he had _not_ meant, had not even _thought_, that she would reaffirm her love for the assassin.

Beyond that, entirely too much had been revealed, and the fish-man was more than a bit saddened by what he had discovered. Not that what he had found in Erica's memories was completely unexpected, but her attitude had been. She was sorry, yes, but she had seemed so…so distant from him, somehow.

Perhaps it was the way she did not regret what she had done, only that she had hurt him by doing it. Or more accurately by his finding out about it.

And the knowledge of her questionable social interactions with the clockwork man _did_ hurt. A part of Abe was willing to forgive her—after all, Erica really could not help what Kroenen decided to do to her, he told himself.

_She could always have pushed him away_, muttered a tiny voice in the back of his head. _And she did not. That counts as a choice, too._

Abe felt like he was slowly drifting out on the tide, the gulf between him and Erica steadily widening until, finally, it would be impossible for him to swim back. One fact was becoming rapidly apparent: he was losing her. Every meeting with Kroenen resulted in a little bit more of her drawing away from him.

Part of Abe told him to go after her, fight for her, fight to keep her.

But here he was, stuck in a tank. Helpless and unable to do most things for himself, let alone go gallivanting off on a mission to Russia while simultaneously trying to win the heart of his fairy princess.

Abe's thin lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile. _You've been reading too many fiction novels lately_, he thought. Whatever Erica might be, she was not in any way a "fairy princess". Not even close. And this was no fairytale, where the white knight rode in to rescue the princess from a fire-breathing monster. No, this was life, bizarre and unfair, where the one who would do the rescuing was a monster himself, and he as well as all the other players were shades of gray.

And while one part of Abe was telling him to fight for her, another told him that if Erica did not want him then he should respect her wishes—and just quietly let her go.

Yes, that was probably in his best interest, and in hers. Just… quietly… let… her… go…

But he did not want to. Abe was afraid that if he let go completely that Erica would never come back. He was worried that she would never return from Russia; that she would vanish with Kroenen, never to be seen again.

That, however, was assuming she survived. There was so much that could go wrong; Erica was walking a perilous razor's edge as she played both sides of the board in the hope that the combination would avert disaster. Abe just hoped that all the secrets he and Erica were hiding from the BPRD would not mass together and, like an onrushing avalanche, come hurtling down on their heads, pulling the world down into destruction after them.

XXXXX

_Russian Airspace_

_Cargo Plane_

_Night_

The humming drone of the plane's engines was a loud roar even inside the cabin. Bundled up against the cold, the BPRD agents were grouped in the cargo section in a small space they had cleared among their boxed up equipment. Hellboy was sitting, slowly drumming the fingers of his red stone hand on the crate in front of him that was serving as a makeshift table. The wood beneath his huge hand already had four deep, finger-tip shaped dents in its surface. The demon's golden eyes were locked on the medieval woodcut illustration of Sammael he had found in Kroenen's lair in the subways, scrutinizing every inch of it.

Towards the back of the plane Myers handed a large sticker to Agent Lime and watched him apply it to a huge wooden crate. Lime smoothed the sticker down with his hand and Myers caught a glimpse of the lettering: LIVE CARGO. The crate was for Hellboy; once the plane landed they would use it to smuggle him unnoticed to Volokolamsk fields, fifty miles from Moscow.

Myers glanced over at the demon and saw him glaring at the crate with an intensity that could have put twin eye-shaped holes right through the sturdy wooden boards. _Obviously he's traveled that way before, _Myers thought, picking up a tray of mugs. _Must not be very comfortable._ He turned sideways to pass through the narrow corridor between the piles of containers and made his way back to the other agents clustered in the center of the cargo hold.

Manning was standing at the end of the corridor with his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, gazing intently in one direction from under the scant cover offered by the brim of the flat cap that shadowed his eyes. He didn't notice Myers. The plane tilted slightly and Myers glanced down at the tray he held, correcting its balance so the steaming liquid in the mugs wouldn't spill. When he looked up again Manning was still blocking his path.

Curious, Myers peered around him and followed his gaze across the cabin. Erica. She was sitting on a crate and using the taller one beside it as a backrest, leaning there with her black leather trench coat spread out around her like the wings of a giant bat. Her left sleeve was rolled to the elbow, revealing the sturdy metal and leather wrist blade sheath strapped to the outside of her arm. Erica peered closely at the mechanism's springs and then abruptly snapped her elbow.

TCHKKK!

There was a flash of silver as the lethal steel blade shot out of the sheath, extending more than a foot from her wrist. Erica regarded its performance critically and, seeming dissatisfied, picked up a small plastic bottle from the equipment repair box beside her and began to oil the retracting apparatus.

Manning watched all of this, frowning.

Trying to be discreet, Myers leaned over to his superior. "Uh, Sir?" he whispered.

Manning jumped a little. "Huh?" he asked, turning to face the agent.

"You're staring."

"What?" Manning asked. He reflexively looked over at Erica again and then quickly away as he accidentally met her steel grey eyes from across the cabin. "Oh, uh, didn't realize it. Spacing out, you know," he muttered unconvincingly. Manning glanced down at the tray and pointed at one of the mugs. "Is that coffee?"

Myers nodded.

Manning picked up a mug and then leaned in on the pretext of reaching for the creamer. "Hey," he whispered, glancing right and left, "when you get a chance, check her bags."

Now Myers was the one staring. "W—what for—?"

But Manning was already walking away.

_Damn it,_ Myers thought. He pressed his lips together in frustration.

Across the cabin Liz straightened up from going through a duffle bag and pushed her arm into a sleeve of the winter coat she had dug out. She adjusted the coat around herself, pulling it up onto her shoulders as she maneuvered her other arm into the other sleeve. Beside her she noticed Erica taking a break from working on her wrist blade to blow on her bare hands and rub them together.

"Not the warmest way to travel, is it?" Liz said, reaching back and pulling her long black hair from where it was caught inside her coat.

"You could always turn up the heat," Erica suggested, smiling slightly.

The pyrokinetic smiled back but shook her head. "I don't think the pilot would like that. Or Manning. You want gloves? There's some spares," Liz said, pointing over her shoulder with her thumb at the duffle bag.

"No thanks; I brought my leather ones. Anything bulkier impedes my flexibility. I have to maintain a high level of dexterity to use my baton swords." Erica gestured at the long blades strapped to her thighs.

"Yeah, well, just don't get frostbite. If your fingers fall off it'll be a lot harder then," the pyrokinetic said jokingly as she turned and walked over to Hellboy, pulling on a knit hat as she went.

Erica flexed her fingers to get the blood flowing. They really were too cold to keep working.

_Oh well_, she thought, _it's not like my blades actually needed the attention. I just wanted something to do. And something to distract me from feeling Manning's eyes on the back of my neck. Honestly, what's _with_ him?_

She retracted the blade and rolled her sleeve down before shoving her hands into the pockets of her trench coat in search of her gloves. For this mission she had traded in her usual t-shirt for a black long sleeved shirt worn over a tank top, and retrieved her leather gloves from her WWII storage container. Erica pulled the tight black gloves on; they were in perfect condition, and butter soft. Wearing them again reminded her of her dream last night where she and Kroenen had been dressed in full SS uniform. They also reminded her of the last time she had worn them: on the cold, rainy night when she had stared death in the face as Kroenen tried to kill her for her treachery.

Once more she was fighting Rasputin and heading towards her near-certain death, but this time the clockwork assassin would be on her side. Something about that was incredibly comforting.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the loud rustle and crunch of cellophane as Hellboy tore into a bag of nacho chips and grabbed a handful. He shoved them into his mouth.

"Hmm…needs cheese," the demon mused, his voice muffled by food. He held another handful out to Liz. "Hey kiddo, want some?"

"Sure."

Hellboy saw Erica glance at the bag. "Grab some," he offered and pushed it closer to her, scattering crumbs everywhere in the process.

She shook her head as she stood; the heavy length of her trench coat fell into place at her sides with a whoosh of displaced air. "I brought a bag of lox in my luggage."

Hellboy frowned and raised an eyebrow at her retreating back. "Do I need to tell you just how _wrong_ that is?" he muttered. "You're dating Blue!"

Erica's head tilted to one side, giving Hellboy the impression she was rolling her eyes. "I don't care. It's one of my favorite foods," she said over her shoulder as she kept walking. Her voice suddenly turned darker. "Besides, I don't know if I would call what Abe and I have 'dating'." She turned sideways to maneuver around Myers and his tray and then continued down the corridor between the walls of crates and cargo containers.

"Yeah, well, don't let Abe catch you with some other fish in your mouth," the demon mumbled. Despite his lowered voice Erica apparently heard the innuendo: from somewhere in the back of the plane came a snarl followed a fraction of a second later by a well aimed bucket that soared over the heaps of crates and struck Hellboy squarely in the jaw.

"Ow! That hurt!" the demon complained, rubbing his chin.

Myers was only vaguely aware of the comments and resulting scuffle. After Erica had breezed by him he reflexively looked over at Manning. He was only a little surprised to see Manning gesturing at him, holding his fist at chest level and pointing to one side with his thumb.

Myers looked right. Nothing. He looked back at Manning. He was still pointing.

'What?' Myers mouthed.

Manning pointed vehemently down the corridor after Erica. 'Follow her!' he mouthed back, looking supremely irritated.

Sighing, Myers set the tray down and went after her, being careful to walk quietly.

By the time he edged his way past most of the crates he was starting to feel tense. And by the time he reached the end, where he knew the special agents' luggage was located, he was definitely nervous. For a moment Myers stood with his back pressed against the side of a container, trying to calm his nerves. He took a deep breath. In. Out. He glanced at the edge of the container.

_Okay_, he thought, _on the count of three_. _One… two… three!_

He peeked around the corner.

No one there. That was odd. Where was she? Baffled, Myers retraced his steps, searching among the various piles and stacks. Nothing. It was only when he had almost reached the middle of the cargo space again that he noticed the little sign on the handle of the tiny bathroom: occupied.

_That clears that mystery up_, he thought.

He glanced towards the back of the airplane again. If there was ever a perfect opportunity for him to go through her bags, this was it. With his ears straining for the slightest sound that would indicate the bathroom door opening, Myers found himself in front of Erica's luggage before his brain had caught up with him. When it did it immediately started in on a lecture about what a bad idea this was, complete with some _very_ graphic sequences of just what Erica could do to him if she caught him. Most of it consisted of things with sharp edges and lots of blood. Myers shuddered.

_Nazi assassin, monster hunter, clairvoyant, possible double agent,_ he thought, breaking out in a sweat as he pictured her wrist blade and how efficiently she had extended it, _and you're going through her bags. Smart. _Real_ smart. She is so going to kill me._

Still, an order was an order. And he doubted he would get another chance like this. Fumbling a little out of nerves, he grabbed the zipper pull on her small suitcase and opened it.

Myers looked down at the neatly folded contents and instantly felt like a complete creep. Guilt dropped into the bottom of his stomach like a large chunk of lead. He didn't really know why he was doing this. He honestly liked Erica. She was nice. Helpful. And yet here he was. A thought crossed his mind that he wanted to deny, but he realized it was probably true: perhaps, in the end, it was his own curiosity that was ultimately driving him.

Fortunately for him Erica was a light packer. He saw nothing out of the ordinary in either of her bags—though the discovery of a pair of pajama pants with tiny cartoon carnivorous sheep gleefully munching on a very distressed man-in-the-moon and frolicking across the fabric had caused him to blink. He had not expected her to own anything so humorous, and could only conclude that someone had given them to her as a gift.

_Whatever,_ he thought in exasperation. He had no clue what he was supposed to be looking for anyway. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Relieved that his unpleasant task was done Myers started to zip the bags closed again, hoping he had put everything back close enough to the way he had found it that Erica wouldn't notice her belongings had been rifled through.

Halfway around the backpack the zipper abruptly stopped, bringing his arm to a jerking halt. Myers looked down. The end of something long and slender and black had slipped out a little and was protruding from the bag. He looked closer, pulling the zipper back so he could open the bag further to investigate.

It was a sheathed baton sword. Just the one; its twin was missing. That plus the fact that Erica already had one set of the blades strapped to her legs gave Myers a sneaking suspicion that this baton sword was the one from the Machen library; the one Manning had security camera footage of Erica stealing.

_Only one way to know for sure_, Myers thought. He glanced behind him, then left and right. Still no one. He felt a little silly for behaving like his overly suspicious superior, but not much—he could understand Manning's paranoia about Erica now that he was kneeling here on the floor in constant danger of her discovering him. He could be caught red-handed at any moment.

_Or more accurately sweaty-handed_, Myers thought. He wiped his damp palms on his pants legs and gripped the sheath in one hand and the odd, perpendicular hilt in the other. He braced himself and then yanked. The blade slid free with much less effort than he had anticipated; as it was he struggled awkwardly and more than a little frantically to keep the last few inches of it in the leather case so it wouldn't go crashing to the floor. Once he was sure it wasn't going anywhere Myers studied the blade, turning it so light hit its polished surface, revealing the elegant lines of engraved script he had suspected would be there.

_Alles für Deutschland_.

A wave of cold washed over Myers that had nothing to do with the temperature inside the cargo plane. This was the blade Kroenen had left at the Machen library. According to the information Myers had read in Erica's file it couldn't be anything else; only the blades Kroenen had forged bore these words, and Erica only had one pair of her original blades—all of the others were blank copies.

So what was it doing here? Why had she brought it? Was it a spare? Or if she was a double agent could it be that the clockwork assassin had asked her to return it? Or did it have some darker purpose, something connected to the imminent release of the Ogdru Jahad?

Myers had no idea, but he knew that it was definitely odd that Erica had taken the blade and then brought it on the mission. Certainly not conclusive evidence by any means, but enough to make him suspicious when combined with the inconsistencies in her reports. Still, he would reserve judgment until he had something more solid to go on; this could all just be coincidence.

But he would definitely be watching her now.

He put the blade inside her backpack and closed it before exiting the area as quickly and covertly as possible. Once he was a little distance away he let himself relax a bit. He had gotten in and out without getting caught. He actually felt a little proud of himself—

An odd rustling noise came from among the crates off to his right.

Still edgy from before, Myers startled. With his heart hammering he turned to investigate, peering anxiously into the shadows. Nothing but containers and a few parcels with their straps swaying from the motion of the airplane.

_Probably just some of the freight shifting around_—

"Why are you following me?" a voice demanded from his left.

Myers nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around and almost had a heart attack when he saw who had spoken. Erica was looming above him, leaning against a stack of crates with her arms crossed, her flinty grey eyes studying him with hawk-like intensity. In the half-darkness of the back of the airplane her already odd eyes glinted eerily and made Myers afraid in some primal, deep-rooted way, bringing up mental images of jagged teeth and wide open jaws. He broke out in a hot, sticky sweat.

"I'm—I'm not. Just—just wanted to use the bathroom," Myers stuttered in a feverish flash of inspiration.

Erica continued to stare at him while he stood there and sweated. She didn't look like she believed him. After what felt like an eternity her eyes turned away. "It's back there. You passed it." Her tone was flat, but not unfriendly. Myers wasn't sure what to make of this but he didn't stick around to find out.

"Uh, thanks," he said as he all but ran to the closet-sized room, feeling her eyes burning into his back the whole way. He didn't relax completely until the door was closed and he heard her footsteps move away down the length of the plane, heading in the direction he had just come from.

Slumped against a wall, Myers faced himself in the tiny mirror. His reflection stared back at him, its face very white. Feeling embarrassed and incredibly self-conscious Myers straightened his black winter jacket and pulled at his turtleneck collar. He did not consider himself a coward—his specialty was hostage negotiations, and beyond that he had emptied an entire clip into a Sammael the first time he saw one and then stuck around to help Hellboy—but clearly he did not have what it took to play spy against Erica in assassin mode. He doubted anyone did. Myers glanced at his pale reflection again and thought ruefully that one look at his face had probably been enough to reveal everything. And judging by the direction her footsteps had taken Myers had an uncanny feeling that somewhere in the back of the plane Erica was checking her bags and knew that he had been snooping through them.

When Myers finally calmed down and got the courage to emerge from the bathroom again he found everyone grouped around Hellboy and the crate he was using as a table, having a conference. Erica was there as well, leaning over one of the demon's shoulders. Like everyone else she briefly glanced up at Myers as he approached. The emotion behind her look was inscrutable, and she returned her attention to the crate again without saying anything, but it still made Myers want to flinch.

Hellboy firmly tapped the wooden planks beside the illustration of Sammael.

"'One falls, two shall arise.' So: you pop one, two come out. You kill two, you get four. You kill four, you're in trouble," he summarized, demonstrating the math by holding up his stone fingers. He placed a cigar stump between his teeth and dug out his lighter. "We'll have to nail 'em all at once. And the eggs."

"And when we do: no mumbo-jumbo," Manning said, laying a grenade belt out on the crate. The string of metal capsules clinked dully, belying their destructive capabilities. "Double-core Vulcan-65 grenades," he explained as he sat down, taking off his flat cap and placing it on the table. "Now we've installed a handy little timer. You set it, you walk away. Cable pulls the safety pins, K-boom! Easy to clean, easy to use."

Hellboy flicked his lighter shut with a sharp metallic ping and grunted, blowing out a curling stream of cigar smoke. "I'd rather put my money on Liz," he muttered.

Manning frowned and opened his mouth but was interrupted by a staticky voice blaring from the intercom.

"Cleared for landing. I repeat: we are cleared for landing in Moscow."

The meeting broke up as everyone but Erica moved into action, stretching and making preparations for landing.

"Okay people! We unload, pack the trucks, and move out!" Manning shouted over the noise of jostling and the roar of the plane's engines as it started to descend.

Erica, who had been standing very still with her eyes unfocused as she did when she was consulting her visions, suddenly stirred. "Before we load the trucks have the agents put the snow chains on."

"There's no snow in the forecast," Manning said crossly.

"There will be. And don't ditch the truck's spare tire to make room for equipment," she said as she headed towards the back of the plane. "We're going to need it."

"I hate it when she does that," Manning muttered to himself as he shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "Hate it."

XXXXX

_Moscow_

_Volokolamsk Fields_

_Sebastian Plackba #16_

_Day_

As usual Erica's visions turned out to be completely reliable. Despite the weather report that there would be some flurries but no accumulation, the snow chains on the truck and two gleaming black vans had a hard time powering through the thick snow and ice coating the rough roads.

"'No accumulation,' huh? Yeah right—I'm looking at more than a foot of 'no accumulation'," Manning muttered grumpily as he climbed out of a van. He was in a bad mood. Because of the van bouncing around on the bumpy roads he hadn't gotten any sleep on the way there and on top of that the whole convoy had been delayed by half an hour when the truck carrying Hellboy's crate had run over something in the snow and gotten a flat tire. _And_ it was still snowing.

Doors slammed as the rest of the agents piled out of the vehicles; the noise was painfully loud in the countryside's dead silence.

"Oh my God," Liz breathed, staring.

They all stared.

The landscape belonged solely to death. This was not simply a graveyard: it was a necropolis, and truly a city of the dead in its enormity. Beyond the rusting and torturously twisted spiked fence endless rows of crypts and tombstones poked through wild foliage and dead vines, their furthest limits obscuring the horizon and seeming to go on past it. Many of the mausoleums and monuments were of impressive scale and towered taller than the main gate. And that was just what they could see _above _the ground.

Awestruck, Liz said quietly, "We should let Hellboy out."

Agent Stone hurried over to the truck and pried the side off the crate with a loud crack. Hellboy blinked and squinted against the suddenly bright light

"You better come out and see," said Liz, peeking in.

There was a clap of leather and a thud as Hellboy jumped to the ground and then strode over to the rest of them gathered in front of the wide open gates. The hardware on the demon's belt clinked softly.

"Sebastian Plackba number sixteen," Hellboy said unnecessarily. He ventured in under the shadow of the gate and the others followed, adjusting their backpack straps and gun holsters.

Erica took the opportunity to pull Kroenen's baton sword out of her backpack. She lengthened the sheath's leather strap and then slung it over her head so the blade lay diagonally across her back with its hilt just above her shoulder. As she straightened up from putting her backpack on she saw Myers gazing at her. He smiled awkwardly and then waved in the direction of the cemetery.

"So… uh, how do you think this is going to go?"

She shook her head slowly as she walked past him. "Myers, at this point it's not a question of _if_ we'll get hurt, it's a question of how _bad_ and if we'll still be able to stop them."

Leaving a very disconcerted Myers at the back of the group Erica trailed slightly behind Hellboy as the demon led them by intuition through the labyrinthine lanes of the dead. Erica scanned the tilted grave markers and the silent faces of the nineteenth century tombs. One in particular had an unpleasant skull-like appearance and seemed to be leering at her; the frigid wind whistled around its lead eaves and with a sudden gust blasted stinging snow and strands of her long brown hair into her face. Erica turned away, pushing the pieces behind her ears. There was something about this place that made her skin itch; almost like she was being watched—other than by Manning, who kept turning back to stare at her. But there was no one around but the other agents, and though the blank stone eyes of the statues she passed were disquieting they were definitely empty. Still, her skin continued to crawl in a vague, unsettling way, like there was something writhing beneath it. Erica shuddered, thinking of the lazy tentacles that had wriggled under Rasputin's flesh the night he had been resurrected.

The feeling slowly intensified the further she got from the main gate and was joined soon after by a sense of familiarity. Erica had been waiting for that. Quickening her pace, she joined Hellboy.

"Kroenen and Ilsa are here," she said. "I can feel them through our blood bond. I just don't know where. Close though."

Manning was just behind her and overheard. "Close? Close meaning what?" he asked anxiously, turning a circle and peering at the spaces between monuments as though expecting to be attacked. For the briefest second his eyes fell on Erica and she saw something accusatory in them, as though he was blaming her.

Erica pretended she hadn't seen the look and shrugged. "Nearby. I can't be more specific than that."

"Hmm, don't suppose you could lead us to 'em," Hellboy grunted. He stopped and craned his head back to read the family names on the mausoleums around them. None of them were Rasputin's. His tail swished at the ground.

"Nein. In a place this big I could maybe get us in the general area, but if they're deep underground I'm not going to pick up anything more specific than what I am already."

Sensing that a decision had to be made, and seeing that everyone was looking to Hellboy to make it, Manning felt a little irritated. _He_ was the leader of this mission, not Hellboy! Manning opened his mouth to give an order but the demon jumped in.

"Then we keep walkin'. Keep your eyes peeled for trouble."

And everyone started off again with Hellboy in the lead, weaving his way among the thin paths between graves.

Glowering but knowing he would have said the same thing, Manning followed, tripping over a headstone as he went.

XXXXX

_Sebastian Plackba #16_

_Mausoleum Section_

_Day_

"It's practically a city. And it stinks, and it's muddy. I think we, uh, we go back, we check into the hotel, we regroup. After breakfast," Manning said. He shivered and hunched his shoulders.

They were all cold, hungry, and tired. But only Manning had the lack of grace to complain about it. Hellboy had wandered off fifteen minutes ago muttering something about asking for directions to Rasputin's mausoleum, leaving the rest of the agents to wait for him and wonder just who he thought he was going to talk to in a cemetery.

Currently the agents were huddled up against the lee side of an enormous crypt in an effort to stay out of the bitterly cold wind. Liz and Erica were on the stairs sharing Erica's package of lox with the other agents; the meat was starting to freeze and had little sparkly ice crystals clinging to its surface. Manning gave the slimy, slightly translucent strips of salmon he was offered a disgusted look and waved them away.

As she chewed, Erica glanced over at Myers. The agent stood some distance away with his back to her, keeping an eye out for Hellboy.

Erica knew Myers had gone through her luggage. She had been watching him the entire time. And it had set off warning bells in her head like crazy. She had known something was going on ever since the meeting at the BPRD when Manning had started staring at her, but Myers's actions had confirmed it. However, this wasn't just the agent's doing—Myers was far too polite to snoop through her belongings on his own initiative. Which meant Manning had ordered him to do it. It then followed that Manning did not trust her. Knowing the full extent of her own situation Erica could list any number of reasons why that might be—fraternizing with Karl Ruprecht Kroenen being at the top—but Manning's knowledge was limited. Just what had set him off? As far as she knew she and Abe had been very careful not to leave any loose ends that might make others suspicious. Not that they were doing anything criminal; just withholding information in Erica's best interests. But still, someone had caught on, and since that someone was Manning he was bound to have come to the wrong conclusion. She just wished she knew what that was.

Then again, if Manning had anything near to solid evidence against her she would probably be spending her time trying to break out of one of the BPRD's cells instead of sitting in this cemetery in Moscow.

That thought was actually little comfort. Because it meant that if she did anything to confirm Manning's suspicions, whatever they were, he might try to shoot her in the back. Or order Myers to do it.

_This job certainly keeps life interesting_, she thought, crumpling the plastic package the lox had come in before stuffing it into her backpack. _As though Grigory Rasputin wasn't enough! But if I can fool Kroenen and live then I can certainly handle Myers and Manning._

She slid her hands into her trench coat pockets to keep them warm and waited. If Hellboy was going to be much longer she thought she might dig the full-head cold weather mask out of her backpack; she really didn't like wearing one because it limited her field of vision, but her cheeks and lips were going numb and painful with cold. All around her snow pitter-pattered softly as it added to the white blanket covering the ground, the headstones, and the agents' hats and shoulders. It was actually kind of pretty.

Then Manning started up again and Erica started to think that maybe her time would be better spent climbing the crypt behind her to watch for Hellboy coming back, if only to have an excuse to get away from Manning.

"This is ridiculous," Manning insisted in his boring, monotone voice. "_I_ run this show. Not him. This guy's nothin' but trouble. Nothin'." He checked his watch impatiently and then spoke up yet again, so sudden and loud in the silence that Erica almost jumped. "Ten minutes we're outta here."

"Will you shut up and let him do his thing?" Liz said with an edge to her voice.

Manning quieted but it was only for a moment. "Anybody got a powerbar?"

Shaking her head, Liz rolled her eyes and groaned in exasperation.

"Hey! Hey here he is," Myers called.

Everyone surged to their feet, as eager to see Hellboy as they were to get away from Manning. They gawked as Hellboy approached carrying the top half of a desiccated cadaver on his back by the hangman's noose around the thing's throat. And the corpse was _moving_, staring at each of the agents with clouded dead eyes.

Hellboy's grin stretched from ear to ear. "Sixty feet further comrades," the demon said smugly in a Russian accent. He held up three fingers on his stone hand. "And three rows in."

"What the hell's that on his back?" Manning asked.

"This here is Ivan Klimentovich." Hellboy turned his head to address the corpse clinging to his back, "Say 'hi' Ivan."

Ivan croaked something in Russian that was so gravelly and hoarse that Erica, who had spent several years working for Rasputin, could barely understand the guttural speech. Hellboy, though he wrinkled his nose at the corpse's putrid breath blowing into his face, didn't seem to have any trouble, but that might have been because Ivan weakly raised a shriveled, skeletal hand and awkwardly pointed in one direction. Apparently he wanted to cut the niceties and get this over and done with as quickly as possible.

Hellboy nodded curtly. "Gotcha."

A short walk brought them before a mausoleum that was reminiscent of a miniature black castle, complete with a Russian turret and domed spire at its peak. The mass of stone was nearly obscured by the tangle of dead vines clinging to it; the name "Yefimovich" was just barely readable over the arched doorway.

The doors themselves were rusted shut or barred from the inside; no lock was visible anywhere on the grey surface, nor did the snake carvings spiraling up the center of each panel seem to be hiding a lever or switch. Since they had no idea what lay behind them Hellboy and his huge stone fist stood to the side while Agent Stone went to work prying open the stubborn steel doors with a crowbar.

Erica meanwhile was observing the area around the mausoleum. Even accounting for the foot or so of snow there was no sign that anyone had passed this way; if Kroenen, Ilsa, and Rasputin were underground they had not used these doors as their entrance. As the doors heaved and groaned under Agent Stone's determined assault Erica couldn't help but wonder if there was a reason for this: was there something lying in wait for the BPRD?

The doors gave way at last with a wrenching bang and opened inwards into blackness. Stale air breathed out bringing a musty scent of age and earth with it. Erica stared down into the darkness. There was a distant ringing noise from the depths, almost like bolts or bits of metal from the doors were pinging as they fell down a long stone staircase and bounced off each step. But knowing who this mausoleum belonged to, and who was waiting for them beneath the ground, she seriously doubted it was anything so innocent.

Everyone looked at each other. This was it.

Hellboy casually hitched Ivan a little higher on his back and started in. "Watch the stairs," the demon called back.

Liz, then Myers filed after him. Then it was Erica's turn. As soon as she stepped inside the narrow passage the incessant howling of the wind was abruptly cut off, leaving a total silence in which she could clearly hear the rapid beating of her heart.

_Like walking into a lion's den_, she thought, gritting her teeth as she tread carefully on the stairs. She wasn't trying to be silent so much as she was avoiding setting off traps, if there were any—which was likely considering Kroenen was involved. She went down one step, then another and another, keeping her arms at her sides so they did not brush against the walls or any hidden triggers. Every nerve in her body was on edge, tingling and ready to send her bolting should she set off some hellish clockwork device. Ahead of her the yellow-white beam of Myers's flashlight danced over the walls as he descended, revealing nothing but glimpses of stonework and a few cobwebs.

Hellboy's deep voice spoke from somewhere below, sounding miles away and somehow more demonic in the darkness. "Ivan says there's a whole network of tunnels down here. Goes on for miles."

Fortunately the stairway was much shorter. After a turn or two there was, oddly, light at the end of the stairs; Erica squinted against it as she stepped out into a round room that had several corridors branching off of it in different directions. There was a soft click as Myers turned off his flashlight; the diffused blue-grey light was daylight coming in from far above them through a hidden opening somewhere in the ceiling.

Hellboy's eyes lingered on the niches and gaping holes that riddled the walls; each one was filled to overflowing by yellowed skulls. "Stay close everybody," he warned as they all fanned out to inspect the room.

"You better be right about this," Manning said uneasily.

Erica cautiously made her way over to Hellboy, stepping quickly and lightly over the long drainage grates that divided the floor into quarters. Though Myers and Liz passed safely under the large circular ring of spikes protruding from the middle of the ceiling Erica avoided it like the plague; there was no way to tell if it was menacing decoration or something functional and lethal. Either way the sight of it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. And she was not the only one; Ivan was clutching at Hellboy's shoulders and making nervous muttering noises that sounded horribly like a dying jackal coughing and wheezing its last.

"We'll be alright as long as we don't separate," Hellboy said. "We don't want a repeat of what happened in the subway tunnels."

Myers nodded in agreement—

_TCHKANGGG!_

Huge metal walls with spikes at the top shot up from the drainage grates as though propelled by enormous springs, dividing the room into sections and slamming into the ceiling with a thud that had all the finality of a bolt sliding home. Erica had only the briefest second to see that the walls were covered in a lattice of metal strips with triangular areas between them before large spikes snapped down from the top row of spaces and then another and another, lower and lower and approaching head height. Erica threw herself flat on the cold stone floor and molded her body as close to it as possible, waiting for the horrible shriek of metal spikes as they shot from the walls with bone crushing force.

But there was only silence.

Erica cracked one eye open. Though the spikes were quivering in place it was only the resulting vibrations of flipping out of the wall; she could see they were anchored to the metal and definitely not meant to be projectiles. She warily got to her feet, taking stock of the situation as she did so. Whatever machinations were at work seemed to be finished for now, but the walls had done enough damage: Liz and Myers and Agent Stone were on the other side. And so were both grenade belts.

BANG! CLANG! _BANG!_

Hellboy's stone fist plowed into the metal wall, but the hand that had brought down brick walls and pulverized concrete barely made a dent. The only thing the demon was accomplishing was creating a painful cacophony that forced everyone on his side to cover their ears.

Hellboy gave up with a disgusted grunt. "It's too thick. Six inches or more. Someone's expectin' us." He flipped his radio on. "Hey! Sparky. Is there a doorway on your side?"

There was a pause and then a crackle of static as Liz's voice came through on everyone's earphones. "Yes. There's a hall; I can't see where it goes."

"Follow it. Tell everyone to turn their locator belts on. Anybody sees anythin'…"

"I'll say Marco."

"Pollo."

"Are you sure about this?" Myers asked.

"On a scale of one to ten: two. Don't worry Boy Scout; she'll take care of ya. She's a tough one."

Erica eyed the corridor on their side. Hellboy had left out some key information. _On a scale of one to ten, which end of the scale is the one where we all die?_ she thought. She was particularly worried that she had no idea what had set those traps off. _They were part of the architecture so they must have been in place since the mausoleum was built_, _which means they are totally mechanical. Kroenen is _not_ somewhere behind the scenes pulling the strings. And that makes it all the more dangerous for us._

Turning to the others she noted with annoyance that Manning was on this side of the wall. She met Hellboy's golden eyes and saw he was thinking the same thing: Manning was a liability.

"For future reference: _don't touch anything_," Erica warned. She directed this more at Manning than Hellboy and Agent Lime. Ivan she didn't have to worry about; he was too busy holding on. "And I mean _anything_. No walls, no door handles, no carvings, no odd looking floor tiles. And stay alert—it's probably inevitable that we'll run into more of those."

"Then you go first," Manning ordered. There was something sharp and unpleasant in his tone that earned him a stern look from Hellboy. Manning floundered to explain. "To, uh, to check it out." The demon continued to pin him down with his gaze. "What? She knows about this stuff."

"_I_ go first," Hellboy said in a way that made it clear the argument was closed. He entered the corridor, ignoring the human skeletons laid out in the narrow recesses on either side. "E, tell me if you see anything I should know about."

It was slow going. Manning and Agent Lime lit the way with flashlights so Erica and Hellboy had their hands free in case something happened, but the narrow beams of light made it hard for Erica to inspect the path properly—especially because she had to do so while peering around Hellboy's bulk and the living corpse on his back, who kept craning his skull around until it was almost on backwards so he could gape and grumble incomprehensibly at her. Manning was also shuffling along behind her; somehow he had gotten in front of Agent Lime. Erica bitterly wished he had not. He was out of shape and his labored breathing coupled with the fear rolling off of him was incredibly distracting. As it was Erica had a sinking feeling she would not detect the trigger wires or weight sensors until Hellboy had already passed them; she just hoped that no one set off anything she missed.

Manning was very, very unhappy. He had never told anyone, but he was claustrophobic. It usually didn't cause problems but this tight, dark, confining tunnel was making him sweat. It reminded him horribly of being buried alive, and with two of the _last_ people on earth he would want to be trapped with. That freak—Hellboy—was coolly striding along up there like he was the person in charge. And the ex-Nazi—who knew what was going on in _her_ head.

_Actually, better drop the 'ex'_, Manning thought. Back in the cemetery Myers had told him that Erica had brought the stolen blade with her; now it was slung brazenly across her back beneath the small pack she carried. And with Myers split off from him Manning knew he was going to have to be his own watchdog when it came to keeping tabs on the BPRD's treacherous assassin. To that end Manning had pushed in front of Agent Lime a while ago, simultaneously deciding that it was not safe to be at the end where he could be picked off, that he could not risk having Erica out of his sight, and that Erica, despite the good possibility she was a double agent, was probably the safest person to be next to since she could see the traps or already knew where they were. And Manning had no desire to be impaled. Or crushed. He shuddered and cast a phobic glance up at the low ceiling.

To his immense relief the corridor eventually ended and let them out on a bridge that spanned a vast chamber. Rugged stone pillars and broken archways, most of them severely decayed and falling apart, rose up from the shadows concealing the chasm's distant floor.

While the stability of the bridge they stood on was one concern, Erica had another: hundreds of enormous gears the size of a house loomed out of the blue dimness. Rusting chains thicker than Hellboy's stone forearm hung from the ruined architecture, running through winches or disappearing into lead channels in the walls. She stared out at it all in alarm. It was definitely meant to do _something_. And if that something required gears that massive to power it she definitely did not want to set it off.

So her jaw dropped when she turned around and saw Hellboy resting his stone hand on a spindly metal railing that was tilting precariously outwards under his weight.

"_Hellboy!_"

Belatedly remembering Erica's warning, Hellboy quickly pulled his hand back. The metal instantly gave way and the section of railing toppled over the edge, making a tremendous din as it crashed into gears and took out an entire stone arch on its way down. Startled by the racket a flock of bats took to the air, screeching.

There was a far-off ringing as the railing finally came to rest below. Hellboy winced.

"I told you not to touch anything!" Erica hissed.

Hellboy shot her an apologetic look before directing his attention to the cadaver now visibly quaking on his back. "How you doin' up there Ivan?"

This time Erica clearly understood the rasping Russian speech: "_If I had legs I'd kick your ass!_"

"I couldn't agree more," she said, seething.

Hellboy wisely decided not to point out to Erica that, unlike Ivan, she did in fact have legs. Instead he shook his head and held the hangman's noose he was using to carry Ivan out to Agent Lime. "Would you mind holdin' this guy for a while? He is _so_ negative."

KLANGGG!

The noise came from above them. Heads craned back to see two gears turning over the doorway they had come through. A steel door rapidly slid down, blocking their way back.

"Hey! _HEY!_" Manning yelled. He beat his fists against the door as though he thought someone had closed it as a mean joke and would open it again.

_BOOM._

Somewhere massive clockwork began to move.

Manning's face was ashen. "What the hell is that?!"

Erica walked further out on the bridge. There was no point in being careful now; something was coming and nothing would stop it. The sight that met her eyes was both breathtaking and horrifying. The entire complex was starting to move. Colossal gears groaned as they shuddered and then came grinding to life, revolving slowly at first but swiftly picking up speed. Huge pistons flashed in the darkness and the cavernous space echoed with thunderous ticking.

"Something big," Hellboy said behind her. "Lime! Come with me."

The agent started forward, business-like and ready for anything. "Right."

"No, no, no… Stay put!" Manning ordered, striding angrily towards Hellboy. "Stop! Now you listen to me. Listen to me!" The demon slowed his pace and gradually turned around in a way that said his patience was running out. Manning took a deep breath and continued in a more normal tone, though his voice shook. "I'm in charge. We're gonna go back. You can take that door _apart_."

_Fear and anger make an ugly mix_, Erica thought, watching Manning's face. _The first drives the second and ends in panic. And that just makes you all the easier to kill._

A strange sense of calm had stolen over her. This was what she had been trained for. _Made_ for. And it was time to move. No sense in staying put and waiting for doom.

Hellboy seemed to feel the same. "Whatever it is it's comin' for us! Now we've gotta move forward! _Lime!_" Hellboy barked. "_Let's go!_"

"STAY _PUT!_" Manning bellowed.

Lime hesitated but did as he was told and stood still. Perched on his back Ivan rolled his clouded dead eyes in annoyance. Erica decided that for all she cared Manning could yell until he was blue in the face—she was not going to listen. Turning smartly on her heel she headed for the door on the other side of the bridge.

"HEY! STOP!" Manning roared after her. "STOP! THIS IS MUTINY! _YOU ANSWER TO ME!_"

Red-hot fury shot through Erica's veins, scorching away her last shred of restraint. She kept going, but the voice that came out of her mouth was so cold and so full of poison that she barely recognized it as her own. "I answer to one man only. _And you are not him!_"

She knew she could be court martialed for this, especially if Manning were to learn that the man she claimed allegiance to was Kroenen, but she could not find it in herself to care. She doubted Manning was brave enough to try it. She doubted he would survive the next few moments.

Manning gave up on her and rounded on Hellboy instead, more determined than ever that the demon would obey him. "AND _YOU!_ I AM NOT AFRAID OF YOU! _I'M _IN CHARGE! WE GO BACK—!"

_BAMM!_

Having covered little more than a few yards Erica whirled to see a gigantic metal and stone pendulum swing past, demolishing the far third of the bridge and hurling stone blocks into the air as easily as if they were made of styrofoam. It took Lime and Ivan with it. Screaming, they fell out of sight.

A deep rumbling boom rolled up from the dark abyss like a monster's belch after a satisfying meal.

All trace of his rage gone, Manning stared wide-eyed over the edge of the gaping hole in the bridge, cowering. It was inches from his feet. Unconsciously he reached out and grabbed at Hellboy's shoulder in a silent plea for rescue.

A clang and the shriek of rusty metal drew everyone's attention to the only doorway they could now reach. A metal door was shuddering inexorably downwards and would soon cut off their escape route.

"Son of a—" Hellboy roughly seized Manning by his coat lapels and hurled him. Manning let out a wail as he slid on his back across the bridge, past Erica, and neatly under the closing door.

"Go, _go_, _GO!_" Hellboy yelled at her. He didn't have to say it twice. Erica ducked in under the door and, ignoring the sniveling heap of Manning in a corner of the tiny hexagonal room, set about stopping the machinery that was sliding the door shut. At the rate it was going Hellboy would never get to it before it closed completely.

Abandoning her backpack on the floor she pressed her ear to the cold slimy wall beside the doorway, listening for the telltale grinding of gears interlocking in a hollow space in the wall. There it was. She moved left and slightly up and it was louder, closer.

"OH CRAP!" Hellboy shouted from outside.

_BAMMM!_

The pendulum's second impact with the bridge nearly knocked her off her feet but Erica still managed to pull the baton sword on her back free of its sheath. With a burst of strength she blindly plunged it into the soft water-decayed mortar between two stones and into the mechanism. The blade was yanked jarringly from her hands as it caught and jammed the cogs, and with an earsplitting crunch the door halted. The baton sword would not hold it open for long though; the machine in the wall strained against the obstruction and to Erica's dismay she saw the nearly indestructible metal was _twisting_.

The pendulum made its third assault on the bridge.

_BAMMMM!_

Crunch. _TIINNNNGG!_

The baton sword snapped in two just as Hellboy rolled under the door, which, propelled by the power that had built up to break the blade, raced for the ground. Hellboy barely snatched his tail out from under it in time.

From behind the door came the final deafening rumble as the pendulum took out the last section of the bridge. As it died away Erica heard something unexpected. Was that music? Faintly, just there; strains of Wagner? Her heart beat faster, but not with fear. She recognized that tune—knew all the words by heart—in the original German _and_ in English. It conjured up memories of Kroenen working in his study and singing along with the music, softly at first, just under his breath, but steadily growing louder until the rafters rang with his powerful voice. He had been an opera singer, once; as a boy he had toured the capitals of Europe. And though coming of age and cutting off his lips had altered his voice and years working with the occult had darkened and roughened it, there had been no denying the absolute rapture and ecstasy in it when he sang.

She was drawn out of her reverie by Hellboy coughing to clear his throat of stone dust. The demon grunted as he heaved himself to his feet. Manning stood too, but shakily. Then they both paused. They heard it too.

"Music," Manning said, bewildered.

Hellboy motioned for silence by holding a finger to his lips. "Shhh." He pulled the Samaritan from its leather holster and held the handgun up, its barrel resting against his shoulder and its muzzle pointing skyward. He moved towards the arched stone corridor, but Erica slithered in front of him.

Her strategic move turned out to have been a good one, despite the slight _wuff _of an annoyed exhale from Hellboy. There at the opposite end of the narrow corridor was Kroenen. He had his back to them and was seated on a spindly Victorian chair at an equally spindly table in the center of a large hexagonal room lit by yellow-red gaslight. The clockwork man nodded attentively and tapped his gloved fingers as the phonograph in front of him filled the air with opera. The music was so loud that he had not noticed the BPRD agents' arrival.

Hellboy shifted impatiently behind her. Erica could practically taste the hatred the demon felt for the man who had murdered his father. She understood his grief but she would _not_ allow him to injure or kill Kroenen. HB nudged her arm, encouraging her to step aside.

"_Keine Weise in der Hölle_," she whispered harshly. _No way in hell_.

Before he could protest Erica shrugged his hand off and forged on ahead, turning sideways to slowly ease past the endless rows of rusty blades that lined the walls of the corridor. The tread of her jackboots on the ground was completely silent as she carefully placed each foot precisely in front of the other. She glanced back at Hellboy; his golden eyes were narrowed and locked on the Nazi assassin. His huge gun was held at the ready. Erica felt her stomach clench. She turned forward again and the soaring music masked the metallic click and hiss as she extended the blades on her wrists. Clearly there was going to be trouble, especially where Hellboy was concerned. And she had no plan. When Kroenen had said he would save her from being sacrificed Erica didn't know what she had expected, but it hadn't included this: sneaking up on the clockwork assassin and being completely unable to warn him without revealing to the others that she and Kroenen had joined forces. Now was absolutely _not_ the time to have that complex conversation.

She edged another step closer, desperately wishing Kroenen could hear her footsteps and knowing he could not. But maybe he didn't need to hear her: he should be able to tell that she was close through their blood bond. She could certainly feel his nearness; the skin crawling sense of familiarity had increased and plunged deeper under her flesh to squirm, but not unpleasantly, alongside her veins.

_Appearances are deceiving,_ she thought, hearing the echo of the assassin's voice in her mind from a long ago memory. _He may be more aware of us than he appears to be._

She began to form the beginnings of an idea. In her dream Kroenen had hinted that she should fight him. And fight him she would—if only as a way to prevent Hellboy from getting a clear shot at the assassin with the big bullets in his gun.

What would come after that, or how the fight would end, she had no idea.

She swallowed thickly and forced herself to breathe slowly. In. Out. Another step. In. Out. A cold trickle of sweat snaked down the side of her face. The tension increased as she passed the halfway point and the end of the passage drew gradually nearer. She tightened her fists and the leather of her gloves creaked against itself. When they reached the end she would have the smallest fraction of a second to run out and put herself directly in Hellboy's line of fire as she attacked Kroenen.

She knew she could do it: she didn't have any other choice.

Another step, and another. Her heart banged loudly in her chest. Only a few more feet from the end of the corridor now. Her leg muscles tensed.

"Ouch!"

Startled, Erica's head whipped around. Behind Hellboy's bulk Manning held up a bloody hand; he had nicked it on one of the blades sticking out of the wall.

Hellboy shot him a dirty look. 'Quiet!' he mouthed. Manning grimaced in apology.

They all looked back at the chamber ahead; Erica had a distinct feeling that she knew what they would find.

The spindly chair was empty: Kroenen was gone.

"Crap. This guy moves like a cockroach," Hellboy muttered. There was a click as he adjusted his grip on his gun.

_Thank God for Manning—for once, _Erica thought._ Now Kroenen definitely knows we're here_.

Creeping forward, she felt the menacing presence of the bladed passageway's tight confines leave her as she ventured out into the room. The wooden floorboards creaked softly under her feet as she looked left and right. Behind her Hellboy paused at the top of the stairs to also scan the room.

There was no sign of Kroenen, but that was no surprise; the stone walls were pockmarked with shadowy niches and recesses. Some of them were full of clocks of every conceivable shape and size, including at least four massive grandfather clocks that were taller than Hellboy. Broken glass panes set into the walls from floor to ceiling revealed the hellishly lit gears turning behind them. Spare cogs and other mechanisms littered the floor around the edges of the room and a tangle of deadly-looking ropes, hooks, pulleys, and heavy chains hung above them. In the center of the room the phonograph played on, masking any sound that would reveal the clockwork assassin's hiding place.

Hellboy frowned and strode over to the phonograph.

"Tristan und Isolde," Erica murmured wistfully. "Selbst dann bin ich die Welt…"

The demon's golden eyes turned on her, scowling. "English, Erica, _English!_"

"The music—it's an opera by Wagner. Tristan und Isolde. Act two: the love duet. 'Thou'rt my world, thine am I.'"

Hellboy gave her a scathing look that clearly said just-why-is-this-important-right-now? Erica shrugged slightly, unable to explain, and walked over to a familiar black uniform hanging neatly from a hanger. A strong sense of déjà vu washed over her: it was Kroenen's SS uniform, impeccably pressed and complete with long black coat. The distinctive peaked hat with its silver death's head emblem hung from a nearby peg. On impulse she sniffed at the fabric; added to the scent of leather and the permanently infused metallic tang of old blood was the smell of soap. Kroenen had washed his uniform, and recently—probably in preparation for tonight. Erica shuddered, picturing him wearing it in the ruins of Trondham Abbey, rain pouring off his shoulders but doing absolutely nothing to wash away the blood that stained his sleeves to the elbow.

Hellboy moved the phonograph's needle off the record. The music halted abruptly, leaving the room in an eerie quiet that amplified the clanking and grinding of the revolving gears.

"Hey." Manning said, drawing their attention. He held up his bloodied index finger. "It really went deep."

_It could be worse_, Erica thought darkly, her ears straining to detect the slightest rasp of the assassin's breathing. _Much worse_.

_Hisssss_…_shink!_

At the telltale sound of a baton sword being pulled from its sheath, Erica jerked and spun on her heel—just in time to see Kroenen step from the shadows behind Manning with his blades flipped forward in attack position. Manning turned as well, but far too slow—his face drained of color and he cried out as the assassin lashed out at him. The deadly steel whistled down just as Manning instinctively stumbled backwards and threw out his arms to protect himself. He hit the floor hard, the left sleeve of his coat slashed open to the skin.

Erica was already running towards him; Manning might not be a friend, but she didn't exactly want to see him cut to pieces either. She saw Hellboy's moving red blur in her peripheral vision and ran faster—

"Hey! Hey what's wrong with you?!" Manning yelled.

Erica had almost reached him when Kroenen went in for the kill. Helpless and sprawled on the floor, Manning yelled in terror as the assassin raised his weapon. In alarm Erica realized she wouldn't make it. The second blade came down—

And Hellboy thrust his stone fist into the blade's path, deflecting it from its intended victim. Kroenen didn't even pause; nimbly whirling his twin blades he sent the razor edges darting out at the demon. Again Hellboy used his stone arm as a shield, and as steel hit stone red fragments chipped off and went flying, narrowly missing Erica's ear as she tried to get closer to the two combatants. Fending off blows with increasingly powerful, deliberate blocks, Hellboy retreated from the assassin. Erica knew it wouldn't last; the demon's anger was growing, and it would only be so long before he got in a devastating punch.

A blade came whirling in from the side and Hellboy forcefully pushed it away, knocking Kroenen slightly off balance. As the assassin teetered the demon saw his chance; aiming for Kroenen's head he raised his stone hand—

And Erica slid into the space between them.

Hellboy stopped his fist so fast he pulled a muscle. Erica didn't seem to notice that her skull had narrowly missed being crushed to smithereens. Cursing and shaking his injured arm, Hellboy lurched backwards out of the way as Erica lunged at Kroenen.

Their blades locked with a horrendous clash of steel. Kroenen cocked his head at her, momentarily startled by the swift change of opponents. Erica's grey eyes stared back at him as her lips contorted in a snarl. Behind her the demon hauled out a huge gun and cocked it, waiting for a clear shot. In a flash Kroenen understood Erica's plan. _Clever girl_, he thought. Yanking a blade free he sliced at her stomach. _Dance with me, Angel!_

Erica barely dodged out of the way in time. She rushed at him, her twin wrist blades cutting through the air with deadly precision where he had been standing only a second before—the flat of a baton sword smashed into her arm and she gasped in pain but still managed to deflect the other blade as it rushed in to cleave open her head. A charade it might be at the bottom, but Kroenen was giving no quarter. And neither would she.

The clockwork man crossed his blades, blocking a blow that would have ripped open his shoulder had he not been swifter. Caught up by her momentum Erica bodily barreled into him and their blades locked again with a crash. She gritted her teeth and pushed back at him, and when he bore down on her with the crippling strength of his mechanical hand, trying to force her to the floor, Erica strained against him and struck him in the chest with a powerful kick that sent him staggering. Glass rained down like deadly water as he fell against one of the windows. Panting, Erica quickly closed the gap between them before Hellboy could get a shot at the assassin. Their blades grated against each other as they came together again, partners caught in a brutal dance with a whirling, vicious pace. Sweat was running down her neck and her heart raced with adrenaline as she threw herself into the fight with complete abandon. She fed off the clockwork man's ferocity and gave it right back in a hail of flashing swords. What a rush! Erica could tell Kroenen was loving every minute of it. The insane urge to laugh bubbled up inside her; she was afraid—for Kroenen, herself, the others—but this was exhilarating!

Abruptly, Kroenen kicked out at her with unnatural speed, hooking his foot around her ankle and yanking her leg out from under her. With a yell Erica hit the floor. Broken glass crunched beneath her leather trench coat as she quickly rolled to the side. A baton sword bit into the floorboard inches from her head and tugged free, flinging splinters everywhere. Backpedaling frantically, Erica rolled again, then heard the high pitched whine of an incoming blade and scrambled to get out of the way. In her haste she blundered into a heap of cogs and the pile collapsed around her with a tremendous crash of metal. Gears rolled across the floor and one smashed into her face, tearing her lip open with its saw-toothed edge. Disoriented and desperate to get off the floor, Erica scrabbled ungracefully to her feet—

With Kroenen behind her.

The second she realized her mistake the assassin's arms closed around her, clamping down on her and crushing her arms to her sides. He dragged her back against his body. Erica froze instantly as the cold edge of a baton sword found its way to her throat.

_Beautiful acting,_ Kroenen's voice said in her head, reaching out to her mind through where their bodies touched. He sounded short of breath. _But your footwork needs improvement._

Across from them Hellboy raised his huge gun. He was scared for Erica; he had already lost his father to this Nazi-zombie and he wasn't about to lose her too. The demon adjusted his aim, sighting down the barrel of the Samaritan. Half-hidden behind Erica's head, Kroenen's masked face leered at him. The demon swallowed nervously, suddenly wishing he had done more target practice; if his aim was even a hair to the side he would kill Erica instead.

"E, hold still," Hellboy grunted. "I got this."

"_Nein!_ Don't!" she yelled, trying to sound as scared as possible. And from Hellboy's anxious, wide-eyed expression she could tell it was working. Erica's stomach twinged with guilt. But misleading him was a necessary evil; if she hadn't been in the way Kroenen would have been ripped to pieces.

The demon stepped closer. "No, I can do it, just—"

Erica choked as Kroenen pressed the flat of the blade against her throat. Hellboy stopped short, then carefully inched forward again when he saw she hadn't been hurt. Manning hovered tensely in the background.

"Come on Erica, we can do it," Hellboy coaxed.

With dread, Erica noticed the gap between them was closing. At a snail's pace, perhaps, but it was still closing. _What now?_ she wondered.

Kroenen's voice gently grazed her thoughts. _Trust me._

Hearing the question underlying his words Erica hesitated to surrender herself to his mercy. If he was asking her permission, then undeniably she was not going to like whatever came next. But she could see no other way out of this, and since Kroenen had an idea, she may as well take a running leap into the dark.

She had no doubt that he would catch her when she fell.

_Alright_, Erica thought back.

And Kroenen pushed the blade into her throat.

Author's Notes: Please review; I value all comments and suggestions.


	22. His Treacherous Savior

**Chapter 22: His Treacherous Savior**

Disclaimer: You know the drill: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz and the plot that is not from the movie are mine.

Author's Notes: The rumors that I fell off the edge of the earth were an exaggeration, and I am back after lots of adventuring to bring you the newest chapter. Thank you all so much for reviewing; they offer encouragement and ideas like nothing else! Now to resolve that nasty cliffhanger from last time…

"Without trust there is nothing."—Anonymous

_Yefimovitch Mausoleum_

_Underground _

_Hexagonal Stone Lab_

_Day_

The cold edge of Kroenen's baton sword sliced into Erica's flesh. A sharp gasp escaped her lips followed by a high-pitched whimper as the icy edge dug deeper. Hot blood spilled from the wound and ran quickly down her neck, then slowed as it hit the plane of her chest and soaked into her shirt, spreading through the fabric like a gory blossoming flower.

Kroenen's hand stilled a hairsbreadth from cutting into her arteries and the cartilage of her esophagus. He pulled the crimsoned blade out and Erica writhed uselessly against his arms as he held it, hovering threateningly, just over her bloodstained skin.

Erica panted, her breaths shallow and wheezing. She trembled with pain and adrenaline; tears spilled from her eyes, tracing twin paths down her cheeks. This was not the worst wound Kroenen had given her in their history together, but she knew if it had not been for his skill as surgeon she would already be dead. As it was the wound was not life threatening, but the amount of blood was certainly spectacular.

Across the room Hellboy had come to a complete standstill, an expression of horror in his golden eyes. _Desired effect achieved_, Kroenen noted. He glanced down to check on Erica. Pain had completely drained her face of color; she was as pale as a porcelain doll. But she would be alright. His Angel of Death was resilient.

He directed his attention back to Anung-un-Rama. "_Lassen Sie Ihre Waffe fallen!_" he rasped.

Hellboy stared at the assassin, unable to understand but recognizing that he was demanding something.

Erica spoke up, her voice strained. "He said drop your weapon."

"What? No way—!"

Kroenen twitched his baton sword towards Erica's neck.

"Whoa!" Hellboy yelled, throwing his arms up in surrender. "Okay! _Okay!_" Slowly, he bent over, reaching out to lay his gun on the floor.

For a moment Erica thought he might actually do it. Then she saw the glint in the demon's eyes.

_Oh shit_, she thought, _Kroenen_—

Hellboy charged like an out-of-control locomotive with a bellowing roar that shook the wooden floorboards.

Kroenen had no time to think. He hooked an arm around Erica and threw her to the floor, out of harm's way, and whirled his right baton sword towards the demon's face. Hellboy threw out his stone arm like a shield and the blade bounced off. A whistle heralded the second incoming blade and the demon punched it aside—

_Swip!_

The other baton sword slipped in from the side, slicing across the bridge of Hellboy's nose. Hissing in pain the demon lowered his head to glare at the assassin. Blood dripped down his face below eyes smoldering with anger.

And then Hellboy snapped.

As fast as Kroenen was he didn't get his crossed blades out of range before Hellboy seized them in a crushing grip and yanked. Doggedly, Kroenen held on—and Hellboy brutally punched him right in the middle of his steel mask. The metal crumpled and a spider web of cracks raced across the glass of the left lens; it shattered and screws and bits of hardware popped off as the stone fist pummeled his mask like a battering ram.

_Karl!_ Erica screamed in her head.

Propelled by fury and desperation she surged up from the floor with a hoarse cry of dismay tearing from her throat. Made clumsy by haste she fumbled and tripped over herself; it was like the air had turned into frozen mud just to hold her back from saving the man she loved. Watching helplessly, Erica retracted her wrist blades and struggled to her feet feeling sick to her stomach; the fighting pair was just feet away but it might as well have been miles—she knew this time nothing short of death could separate them.

The onslaught of metal-crushing blows halted and Kroenen gurgled inarticulately; his head jerked as Hellboy dragged him closer.

"You killed my father!" the demon roared into the smashed ruin of the Nazi's mask. "_Your ass is mine!_"

With a forceful grunt Hellboy hauled back and delivered a final punch. Limbs flailing, Kroenen's body flew backwards and smashed into one of the glass panes. The window shattered explosively and the assassin slid to the floor in a crash of splintering glass shards.

Cursing, Hellboy took a moment to wipe at his bleeding nose with the back of his hand. Across from him Kroenen leaned against the wrought iron railing in front of the window and struggled to push himself into a sitting position. An asthmatic wheeze rasped from the assassin's throat, then again, louder and steadily gaining strength. Incredibly, he was laughing.

Kroenen wasn't just laughing because the demon and his fat balding companion were standing on the massive trapdoor in the floor, completely unaware of their impending doom. No, it was the beautiful, terrifyingly murderous expression of fury on Erica's face as she clenched her fist around the hilt of a knife, her steely eyes locked on Anung-un-Rama.

She was _magnificent_.

Oblivious to the avenging angel poised behind him, Hellboy curled his lips in disgust at Kroenen. "What are you laughin' at you Nazi son of a—"

Someone forcefully tackled him from behind. An arm locked itself tightly around his throat and hung on—

"_AAAARRrrrrgh!_"

A dagger plunged into Hellboy's back just below his right shoulder, piercing leather-tough skin and taut muscle to the bone. Reflexively, Hellboy twisted sharply and shrugged his shoulders, dislodging his attacker and hurling him to the floor. The demon whirled around, stone fist raised and ready to obliterate—

The black clothed blur skillfully ducked and retreated out of range, positioning itself protectively between Hellboy and the clockwork assassin.

Hellboy gaped in utter shock.

Familiar fierce grey eyes gazed back at him with steely purpose. Crouched and ready to spring, Erica discarded the dagger and drew her baton swords with hands stained crimson by Hellboy's blood.

"Back off!" she ordered. Her voice was thick with anger.

"What the_ hell?_" the demon exclaimed.

Manning was equally astonished. "I—I was right!" he babbled, pointing at Erica and sounding oddly elated. "I was right! She—she—she's with them! I _told_ Myers—!"

Kroenen laughed manically behind his treacherous savior; the sound of it both harsh and exultant.

"_My_ Angel," the assassin emphasized through his totally unrestrained cackling. "_Mine!_"

"E…" Hellboy murmured, bewildered. His voice was soft; hurt and disbelieving. Erica could practically see the puzzle pieces falling into place in his head as he realized that her fight with Kroenen and the threat to her life had been nothing but a sham. It pained her to turn on him, but no matter how much she was torn between loyalties she was not going to back down while Kroenen was in danger.

Hellboy moved towards her. Instantly on the defensive, Erica flipped her baton swords forward and took up an attack position.

"You don't wanna do this," Hellboy said warningly.

"_Ja!_ I do! You would do the same thing for Liz!"

Comprehension slowly dawned on the demon's face. "Liz? Erica, are you _out of your fucking m—?_"

She held up her hand, cutting him off and urgently signaling for silence, then cocked her head to better hear the faint sound she had detected. From beneath the floor came a grinding of gears that filled her with dread. A memory surfaced of the same sound: gears whirring, a thud of six support bars drawing back, and then there should be a—

_Click._

Erica's eyes flicked down to the old dusty floorboards and she hurriedly stepped back—

The middle of the room split like the segments of an orange and dropped down into darkness.

Hellboy plummeted through with a yell. Manning slid after him; his fingers just barely latched onto a crack in the floorboards and he hung there, half in, half out of the hole in the floor. The phonograph and chair toppled past him. Below, Hellboy's left hand shot out and closed around a rope, stopping his fall with a bone-rattling jerk.

With one foot on solid ground Erica teetered precariously on the edge.

She caught a glimpse of Kroenen, frozen in horror as he stared at her—and then she fell.

The darkness of the pit rushed up at her. Instinctively Erica lashed out with her baton swords. Her right blade bit deep into wood and her heart-stopping fall halted abruptly, wrenching her shoulder. Hissing in pain and knowing what was coming next, she drew her knees up to her chest. Metal shrieked below her feet as thick iron spikes shot up through the floor of the pit, overturning the gleaming white bones of the trap's past victims. Quivering, the six-foot spikes stopped beneath Erica as she hung there, twisting and turning.

Just feet away from her Hellboy was in a similar predicament, holding on for dear life to a rope that dangled from the ceiling. Of the three of them that had fallen only Manning had managed to escape and scramble back onto solid ground; his wan, anxious face peeked over the edge at them.

_The irony_, Erica thought bitterly, her feet scrabbling for purchase on the smooth stone wall. _Stupid, stupid, stupid! I know what these things look like. I should have—should have seen it—_

Her muscles strained and protested as she tried to pull herself up one-handed. Not happening.

She tilted her head back to see if there was anything else to hold on to—and there was Kroenen, peering over the edge of the trapdoor at her through the lenses of his destroyed mask. He gracefully held out a gloved hand. Smiling with relief, Erica swung her other arm up and caught his fingers; strong arms easily pulled her to safety.

"_Danke_," she murmured, grateful to have her feet back on terra firma.

Careful not to cut her with his swords, Kroenen pulled her into an embrace, thankful she was unharmed. "It was nothing," he whispered. He grasped his mask by the chin; in its damaged state it practically fell off in his hand, exposing his lidless eyes and raw-gummed lipless mouth. Kroenen did not care, and neither did Erica. She gazed unflinchingly back at him as he leaned in to possessively run his tongue along the side of her face from jaw to eye.

"That's just nasty!" Hellboy muttered from the depths of the pit.

Manning, for once, seemed to agree with the demon; he gagged and then bent over and retched.

Laughing, Kroenen pulled on his mask. Breaking away from Erica he flourished his blades; light flashed dazzlingly over their edges as they came within inches of the rope Hellboy hung from.

"_Enough_," Erica said firmly. She laid a hand on his shoulder to pull him away. "You swore you wouldn't kill anyone. Now help me get him—"

_TINNNNNNG!_

Like a well-aimed discus a gear whizzed out of nowhere and struck Kroenen's mask. Across the room Manning smirked and readied another.

"Don't even think about it," he said.

Realizing Manning had misconstrued her words as a threat instead of a request for help in hauling Hellboy's tailed butt out of the hole, Erica started to explain but was forced to duck when Manning hurled another cog.

"Take that you _Nazi_ _bitch!_"

A strangled grunt alerted her that she had more pressing problems than Manning. With almost mechanical smoothness she turned—and her heart stopped as she spotted Kroenen crouched at the edge of the hole. A rope was looped tightly around his neck and he had frantically jammed his baton swords into the floor to anchor himself. Hellboy heaved on the other end of the makeshift lasso and Kroenen lost his grip; he fell onto all fours, leaving his blades embedded in the floor.

Before she could cut the rope Hellboy hauled himself out of the pit, grabbed the assassin's ankle, and hurled him over the edge.

"_NEIN!_"

Erica screamed and lunged for him, dropping her blades and nearly toppling in herself. Her fingers snatched at the air.

Too late.

Kneeling on the floor Erica stared down into the pit, her hands white-knuckled and shaking where they gripped at the edge. Her mouth worked soundlessly in horror.

Kroenen was suspended above the floor of the pit by the three spikes that pierced his body. One had gone through his left bicep, another speared his left thigh, and the third impaled his chest just below his sternum. As she watched, Kroenen dazedly reached out to touch the rusty spike that protruded from the middle of his chest, as though he couldn't quite believe that he had been skewered by his own trap.

Heavy footsteps approached and Erica felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up as Hellboy's shadow loomed over her. She turned—the side of a boot crashed into her ribs, knocking her flat on her back. Gasping for breath she gaped up at the demon stooping under the weight of a massive cogwheel like Atlas with the world on his shoulders.

"That's all for you, pinhead," Hellboy spat. Below him Kroenen wriggled like a fish caught on a hook as he tried in vain to escape from the half-ton of metal suspended above him.

Hellboy glanced sideways at Erica lying on the floor, imploringly reaching out to him, and then with a mighty heave he tipped the gear into the pit.

_CLANG!_

The giant cog slid down the metal shafts trapping Kroenen, pulverizing one of them and coming to rest at a slant with one edge propped up against some of the spikes.

At Hellboy's feet Erica was shrieking incoherently in German. The demon stepped towards her. _Time to get to the bottom of this_, he thought. Hopefully she was upset enough that she would just reveal everything; what seemed to be going on, that she was on Rasputin's side, just couldn't be true—it didn't make sense. Regardless, whatever she had gotten herself into wasn't looking too good from where he was standing.

But an easy confession wasn't to be. The second he moved Erica executed a swift roll that carried her away from the edge of the pit. She fluidly got to her feet. Weaponless, she feinted left, and when he moved with her she ran to the right.

_Smack!_

Trying to be relatively gentle Hellboy brought her down with a left-handed punch. Unfortunately he still over-did it: Erica fell into one of the stone walls and slid to the floor in a limp heap, blood oozing from a nasty gash at her temple. She was out cold.

Sighing, Hellboy carefully propped her up against the wall and then snapped a pair of handcuffs onto her wrists behind her back. His fingers found the pulse in Erica's throat just above the half-congealed slash from Kroenen's blade.

"Damn. She'll be out for a while," he muttered, pulling away. Fumbling in his coat pockets for a cigar stump, he joined Manning over by the pit.

Manning chucked his handful of gears over the edge, ineffectually adding to the immense weight that had crushed Kroenen. He dusted his hands off before shoving them into his coat pockets. "You know, I've been tracking her since the subways incident; had Myers assigned to tail her. I knew she was a double agent—knew it. Felt it right here in my gut," he said, prodding at his ample stomach through his coat.

Hellboy shook his head and clamped his teeth down on the cigar; his hands returned to his pockets, rummaging for a lighter. "Nah, that's just what it looks like. Somethin' else is goin' on here. She can't be a traitor. Deceivin' us for six decades is outta the question; she and Broom were too close. And Abe would have known—he wouldn't have kept quiet about somethin' like that."

"She stole that knife she stuck in the wall back there," Manning insisted, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at the room on the other side of the blade-lined corridor. "Lied in all her reports. She was covering something up. Kept saying that clockwork Nazi was knocking her out instead of killing her. And from what we just saw, _clearly_ they were working together. What was that—that licking thing supposed to be? A kiss?" He shuddered.

"Mmmmph. Abe's not gonna be happy about it, that's for sure," the demon grunted around the stub in his mouth. His searching fingers closed on the cold metal of his Zippo lighter and he pulled it out, gesturing at Erica. "We're not gonna be gettin' any answers for a while—by the time she wakes up we'll be done here."

He flicked the lighter open and thumbed at it repeatedly, struggling to get a flame out of it.

"What're you doing?"

"Lightin' my cigar—"

"Come on, you never light a cigar that way," Manning said, taking the malfunctioning lighter from him. He pulled out a matchbox; he struck a match and it flared into life, filling the air with the smell of burning sulfur. "You use a wooden match. Preserves the flavor, you see?"

Hellboy puffed on his cigar and nodded, smiling. "Thank you." _And not just for the match_, he thought. That thrown gear could not have been timed better.

"And thank _you_," Manning replied.

Having come to some sort of brotherly truce by saving each other's lives, the two stood in pensive silence for a few moments, wreathed in tendrils of tobacco smoke. Then Hellboy took the cigar stub from his mouth and ground it out.

"I'm goin' on ahead; you'd better stay here. I'll find a way out. We'll come back for you."

"Stay here? With _her?_"

Hellboy stopped in the doorway and threw out his arms in exasperation. "She's handcuffed and unconscious. What more do ya want?"

"Dead comes to mind," Manning muttered under his breath as the demon vanished through the doorway.

Alone now, Manning glanced nervously at Erica's still form, and then around at the gears still spinning in the walls.

"Creep-y," he said. For lack of anything else to do he started pacing, peering at some of the clocks and scattered papers with the interest of someone painfully bored and tense but trying not to show it.

XXXXX

_Underground _

_Narrow Tunnel_

Liz moved down the tunnel, picking her way through the narrow space. Parts of the ceiling had collapsed long ago and pieces of timber, disintegrating coffins, and corpses formed a chaotic barrier in the narrow passageway. Wet earth fell on Liz's shoulders as she squeezed past. In front of her Agent Stone splashed through shallow puddles as he forged ahead; Myers trailed behind her, carrying the two grenade belts.

Their radios crackled to life and Hellboy's voice came through. "Hey, Sparky, you there?"

Liz flicked the beam of her flashlight over the rough rock walls, carefully advancing. "Yes. Find anything yet?"

"Just that Nazi pinhead. I took care of him, but we have a problem."

Liz rolled her eyes slightly. Imagine that. "What is it?"

"Somethin' with Erica."

"She's hurt?"

"Yes, but that's not it. Not exactly."

The pyrokinetic turned a corner, stepping over a heap of skulls. She had absolutely no patience for guessing games right now. "Spit it out, Red."

There was a burst of static as Hellboy exhaled heavily. "It looks like she's a traitor."

The three of them stopped in their tracks and exchanged uneasy glances.

Myers broke the silence. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know the details yet—but she was defendin' that clockwork zombie. Stabbed me in the back. Literally."

"Jesus," Myers murmured in surprise. He ran a hand though his damp hair. "Manning was _right_."

Liz shot him a sharp look that told him to be quiet and explain later.

Hellboy continued. "I knocked her out, and Manning's keepin' an eye on her, but watch out. I don't know how much our mission is compromised. Red out."

Except for the constant dripping of water the tunnel was dead silent, the air thick with the three's collective shock and dread.

"_Shit!_" Agent Stone cursed. "Do you know how much she could have given away?"

"Yeah," Liz replied, her heart heavy. "_Everything_."

XXXXX

_Hexagonal Stone Lab_

Manning was thoroughly engrossed in a set of drawings he had found on the floor. Sure, the flesh laid open and fused to machinery was disturbing, but the sketches were so detailed that they were fascinating in the same macabre way as a train-wreck.

_Damn, this guy had a couple screws loose_, he thought. Manning flipped the page over and went on to the next, skimming the sepia-toned ink for any recognizable words hidden among the German script.

Somewhere behind him an eye cautiously slit open and watched his hunched shoulders. After a few minutes when it became apparent that the man was absorbed with the papers and unlikely to turn around, nimble fingers silently moved into action. Slipping into the back of a boot they deftly drew out a slender blade. With head lolling and eyes still closed in appearance of unconsciousness, the ex-assassin awkwardly angled the knife point upwards behind her back; a subtle flick of a wrist jammed it into the lock on the handcuffs. She jiggled it back and forth; with a final push and twist the lock gave.

The handcuffs hit the floor without a sound.

"What exactly is this?" Manning muttered to himself. He gave up, crumpled the drawing into a ball, and tossed it neatly through a hole in one of the glass panes. Sighing, he scratched at his head and put his hands in his pockets. Where was Hellboy? Maybe he should radio him and find out—

Steel as cold as ice touched the back of his neck.

Manning froze, instantly drenched in sweat. He knew who it had to be even before the Nazi assassin spoke.

"Hands out of your pockets," Erica hissed menacingly in his ear. "And pull them out _slowly_. Now!" She punctuated her words by pressing down on the blade.

Shakily, Manning held his hands up and put them on his head. Summoning some latent courage, he muttered, "Just what _is_ it with you and that Nazi wind-up toy playing possum, huh?"

Erica didn't answer. Her free hand darted in from the side to rifle through his pockets, searching for the gun the BPRD distributed to all of its agents.

"How'd you get out of the handcuffs?" he asked over his shoulder.

"They're as standard-issue as your gun," she replied, pulling the latter out of his pants pocket. "The basic design hasn't changed in the past twelve years. I routinely practice escaping from them—just in case. Now walk."

Manning did so; Erica followed him with her ever-present knife hovering between his shoulder blades, prodding him forward. His heart hammered furiously while his stomach tied itself in knots. Having an assassin behind him was far from comforting: was she going to push him into the spike pit, or was she planning on cutting him up and feeding him in pieces to a Sammael?

"So what are you going to do with me?" he asked. His voice quivered more than he had hoped.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

Manning raised his eyebrows. "That's good to know." He continued shuffling forward at dagger-point. "So what's with the knife?"

"I'm not so sure you're not going to hurt me."

He snorted. "_You're_ the one waving the knife around."

"It all serves a purpose," Erica said cryptically. "I didn't know what was going to happen here, and you and Hellboy probably just crushed our only hope of winning this."

"Good," Manning said resentfully. "All of you can rot in h—"

"I'm not with Rasputin," she growled, startling him because her voice was suddenly much closer to him than before. She was practically breathing down his neck. "I'm fighting to keep you—me—_all_ of us alive. There's no time to explain and even if I did you wouldn't believe me; not here, not now."

Manning's shuffling had brought him to the door Hellboy had gone through a while ago.

Erica leaned in closer and her voice took on an ironic tone. "You're just going to have to trust me on this one."

"As if!"

Erica's hands collided with his back, shoving him out into the passageway. Stumbling, Manning regained his balance just as Erica threw his handgun the length of the hall.

"You'll need this!" she yelled.

—and slammed the door in his face. Heavy locks thudded home.

This time Manning didn't bother to pound on the door. Bending over, he retrieved his gun and pocketed it, wondering why Erica had given it back. Whatever—she was probably as crazy as the rest of them.

He looked left and then right. Now what? Maybe he would try to find Hellboy...

An unearthly, eerie howl echoed from somewhere underground and slowly died away.

…On second thought, maybe he would follow his own orders and just stay put.

XXXXX

_Hexagonal Stone Lab_

Beneath the giant gear Kroenen was still alive.

Though at this point the clockwork assassin was almost wishing for the icy hands of death to steal him away and take him into the folds of oblivion. That black void would at least be free of the crushing pressure of the cogwheel's weight mercilessly bearing down on him and pinning him immobile to the floor. The spikes impaling his body were not exactly comfortable either; the shock induced by the wounds had dulled the pain to a barely manageable though not quite pleasurable agony. This was not the controlled pain he liked. He was hyper aware of each damaged muscle, each ragged, shredded piece of flesh, and his hands itched to hold the cold metal tools that could repair them.

But first things first: the gear would have to go. And with only one free arm and leg, no matter how enhanced by his tinkering with clockwork, there was no way he would be able to move it himself. One option was to slowly tear his limbs free from the spikes, but that was a measure of last resort because of the massive amount of damage it would entail. His only other hope, tiny though it might be, was Erica—and based on the conversation he had overheard she was unconscious and therefore temporarily unable to assist him.

So he waited in the darkness, listening to the ragged sound of his breathing and the clanking of his damaged clockwork. There was a soft, nearly inaudible hiss somewhere off to his left: sand oozing from his wounds.

A sudden scuffle and loud, angry words above him drew him out of his thoughts. Two pairs of feet walking, and—Kroenen's heart leapt as he detected Erica's voice amid the tense conversation. Then a door slammed and silence abruptly returned, seeming to stretch out into infinity. Kroenen counted the moments by the steady ticking of his clockwork heart, waiting to hear his Angel's voice again. Nothing. No voices, no movements. He was alone.

Then the familiar sound of an even more familiar pair of jackboots came from above him, heels tapping as their owner strode towards the pit from the direction of the door that had closed seemingly hours ago. Kroenen was sure he recognized the sound of the footsteps, muffled and distorted as they were by the enormous gear crushing him and the odd shape of the pit. He was certain no one else walked like that. Did he dare to hope?

"Kroenen?" Erica called softly to him. He could hear the doubt in her voice and knew she was uncertain if he could hear her, or if he had been crushed into nothingness.

"I'm going to get you out. Just hang on, alright?"

If his chest was not being flattened by the gear's immense weight, Kroenen would have laughed. He admired Erica's tenacity and loyalty, but he could not imagine there was anything she could do. Determination was a strong force, but by nature it was intangible; it only had the desired effect if one had the right tools at his disposal. And at the moment his Angel of Death had only herself. Still, she had proven herself resourceful in the past; perhaps she would be able to find a way to help him.

There was a rattle of heavy chains being shifted and rearranged. "No one deserves such a fate," he heard her mutter angrily. "I'll see Red and Manning in hell before I let them leave you like this."

Kroenen smiled mentally. He knew she was talking to him in the hope that he could hear her, and that if he could that he would stay conscious.

Erica's footsteps methodically circumnavigated the room, followed by the ear-splitting shatter of glass as she broke each and every remaining window.

_She is either in a very bad mood, or she has an idea,_ Kroenen thought wryly. His own humor in such a situation surprised him; perhaps the steady loss of the sand that served as his blood was affecting him more than he had realized.

Metal scraped across the floorboards, followed by a series of thumps, clangs, and curses from Erica as she muscled something into place. More rapid footsteps and chains dragging over the floor—

_CRASH!_

The impact of chains hitting the top of the gear reverberated through the thick metal and into his chest. Kroenen grunted in discomfort.

"Sorry."

There was a soft scuffling as Erica climbed down into the pit. Old dry bones crunched beneath her boots as she walked around the gear, hooking the chains to it. Then silence. The assassin guessed that Erica must be climbing out of the pit again.

"Okay, here…we…_go!_" she muttered, straining against something.

Whatever it was gave way. Immediately the sound of the revolving clockwork in the walls grew louder; the speed of their rotation was increasing, and it sounded like they were struggling against something—

The colossal weight of the cogwheel shifted and then abruptly lifted from Kroenen's body. The relief was unbelievable; almost unearthly satisfying. He lay there reveling in the ability to simply expand his chest and breathe. Above him metal creaked as the cogwheel inched higher and higher and finally reached the top of the pit and was maneuvered to the side. It clanged like a huge manhole cover as it dropped to the floor with an earthshaking boom.

Seeing the configuration of ropes and hooks above him, Kroenen suddenly understood: Erica had created a winch by running a chain through pulleys and attaching one end to the enormous cog and the other to the gears in the walls. They had simply wound in the chain until she swung the gear aside.

_And speak of the devil_…

Erica looked down at him, her pale face creased with worry. Kroenen twitched and raised his head, letting out a soft groan. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips but quickly vanished; her task was far from finished. Grabbing a rope she quickly slid down it and joined him in the pit.

She sank to her knees beside him, her legs landing in the soft white powder spilling from his wounds. There was an alarming amount of it, especially pooled on his chest, but there was no point in stopping its flow since freeing his body from the spikes would cause more of it to pour out.

Kroenen gestured at his face with his free arm and found he didn't even have to ask.

As he had wished she would, Erica leaned over him and her fingers, remembering their paths from so long ago, easily found the buckles at the back of his head and slipped the straps from them. His hand rested gently on her wrist, the smooth leather of his glove sliding along her skin as Erica reached forward and carefully peeled away the remains of his shattered, mangled mask. Kroenen could take in air more freely now; he had not realized how suffocating the dented metal had been until it was gone.

Erica set the mask aside. "I'd ask if you were okay, but I think it would be pointless." She smiled sadly.

"Agreed, Angel," he said raggedly. He raised his head and gazed down the length of his body, inspecting his injuries. They were extensive, but nothing that could not be repaired. If there was anything fortunate about his situation it was that the spikes had gone through the muscles beside his bones instead of through the bones themselves.

"Maybe I could rig the winch to pull you up off the spikes," Erica mused.

"Nein—that would require a somewhat more delicate operation than the raw power needed to lift the cog, and we do not have enough time for you to make the proper adjustments. I suggest we take a more direct route." Kroenen gestured at the daggers on her belt.

Erica frowned in uncertainty. "You want me to cut you free?"

"In the interest of time, ja. I will not be particularly useful at saving you from being sacrificed if I am lying down here."

Erica hesitated. And not because she doubted her medical skills; she had worked with him before—many times—to repair his injuries or assist him in making alterations when his two hands had not been enough. And yes, he had definitely gotten a high off of the pain that was certainly not within the realm of what was appropriate, but at least he had managed to somewhat control himself while in her presence so as not to distract her or make her too ill at ease. What he did in his own quarters behind closed doors afterwards she had never cared to contemplate. Now she wasn't so sure how he would react. Though she knew it was necessary to free him, and quickly, because time was passing with every tick of his clockwork heart and every grain of sand that fell from his wounds, she hung back, reluctant. With what had passed between them in the last few days, Erica knew that Kroenen's response to the pain she would cause him would no longer be restrained by some semblance of professionalism.

No, this was at risk of turning into something far more heated and impassioned.

Abe would definitely not approve.

Of course, the fish-man certainly would not have approved of Kroenen licking her face either.

Erica shook her head. That aside, Abe had told her to do whatever she needed to come back alive. Freeing Kroenen was one of those things. And it wasn't like she could help the fact that the clockwork assassin got off on pain.

_True_, she thought, _but you could also tell him to control himself. _Erica frowned. She _really_ hoped she wouldn't have to go there.

Kroenen seemed to intuitively sense her dilemma. His permanent lipless grin widened and his voice took on a mischievously wicked tone. "Come now, Angel, no need to be a shrinking violet. You are about to have a crash refresher course in anatomy and flesh reanimation. I would think you would _relish_ the opportunity to be in control."

Erica slowly blushed as his words sank in and quickly turned away, hiding her flushed face under the pretense of drawing a dagger from her belt. She was certain the clockwork man was toying with her, setting up double-entendres that sounded completely innocent and business-like.

The soft chuckle from Kroenen, dark and sinful as chocolate, confirmed her suspicions.

_Bastard_, she thought, involuntarily blushing again. Kroenen could be a gentleman when he wanted, but he could also be a complete scoundrel.

Once she had banished the unwanted color from her face she turned back to him, determined to keep this as strictly surgeon-to-assistant as she could. Kroenen, at least for now, seemed to have decided the same.

"My arm first," he instructed.

The spike had impaled his arm just above the elbow, between the muscle and bone. On the one side a thin, painfully stretched piece of flesh and some strands of black fabric was all that kept his arm anchored to the metal. Relatively thin, anyway; with the blue veins and straining muscles just below the pale, almost translucent skin, it reminded her disturbingly of a chunk of raw chicken laid out on a butcher's block. It was so taut that white rib lines had appeared, something Erica had only ever seen on stretched fabric.

This, undeniably, was going to hurt.

Poised over him, Erica hesitated for a moment, the dagger glinting in her hand.

"Are you—are you sure about this?" she asked. "I mean—"

Kroenen fixed her with his staring blue eyes. His free hand wrapped gently around the hand in which she was holding the blade. "You will not harm me," he said, his voice level, reassuring. "If anything, I will _enjoy_ it."

Gently, caressingly, he trailed a finger down her arm and then along her thigh to end drawing unhurried spiraling patterns on her knee. Her skin tingled and she barely resisted the impulse to writhe just a little under his touch, unsure if she wanted to get closer to it or twitch away. In fact, she was generally uncertain if she found his statement and actions toward her unsettling or alluring, or perhaps even some bizarre combination of both.

"Just don't scream," she muttered. She could have sworn she heard him laugh quietly in response; the sound velvet and full of dark promise.

"If I do, I assure you it will not be in pain."

Erica bit her lip and braced herself. She would do it with one clean cut, she decided. And then she pushed down on the blade. She felt the slight resistance as the dagger encountered and then sliced cleanly through his sinewy bicep, through skin and muscles, flaying the flesh of his arm to the gleaming white bone. Dust poured out, forming little hills and kicking up in a cloud that filled her nose and choked her with its dryness. The task done, the blade slipped free and slammed into the floor, bringing her arm to an abrupt halt. Erica did not quite dare to look at what she had done, or how Kroenen was reacting to it. His drawn out moan and his fingers still tightly gripping at her thigh were more than enough.

Erica stared at the floor, focused solely on breathing. Oddly, she felt exhilarated. It was similar but different to what she had felt while fighting Kroenen. A few grains of sand skittered into her line of vision, drawing her eyes to follow their rolling, bouncing path as they scattered.

"You are panting, Angel," Kroenen murmured. His voice was rougher than usual.

Feeling oddly guilty, as though she had been caught doing something illicit, she immediately stifled it. Then, realizing her reaction was ridiculous, she allowed herself to take in air as her body wished. Erica heard the assassin breathing heavily as well and she wondered at it, unsure whether having this kind of power over him was thrilling or repulsive, and then dared to consider if maybe, just maybe, she could like it… She pushed the thought away, covering her internal conflict with sarcasm.

"Ja, well, it's not like I'm under any amount of stress here. I'm only lost underground in the mausoleum of an _insane_ mystic monk who wants to murder me as a blood sacrifice to seven gods of chaos who are probably going to destroy the _world_, not to _mention_ that I _attacked_ my team members and then _threatened_ and locked one of them out of this room so I could rescue _you_, and the BPRD thinks I've _betrayed_ them. _And _you asked me to hack into your body to free you from the spikes of your own trap. Ja, everything is just _fine!_"

Erica finally forced herself to look over at Kroenen; heedless of her ranting he was maneuvering his mangled arm off and away from the spike that had pierced it. Shreds of cloth and flesh hung from the incision she had made; metal gleamed from inside the wound, fused to muscles and ligaments. She watched with a sort of horrified fascination, unconsciously leaning closer for a better view as he probed the gash with his other hand, his fingertips sliding skillfully over his own muscles as he assessed the damage.

"You did well," he said, then looked up at her. Erica suddenly realized her face was unexpectedly close to his; she didn't remember moving. He laughed. "Taken a sudden liking to the view?" He tilted his head at her; Erica got the idea it was his form of a wink.

"Um—nein, nein—just—if I'm going to help you repair that, I have to be able to see…"

"You are volunteering yourself?" He sounded surprised.

She hesitated, then, "Ja."

"Very well then," he said, pleased. Unbelievably, he sounded almost cheerful. "But first, we must finish here. My leg next, I think. I will start on my torso." He pulled a long, slender knife from his belt with his intact arm.

_He's enjoying this way too much_, she thought. Erica inspected his thigh; like his arm and torso the spike had not pierced the bone and instead had passed through the flesh beside it. With another quick slash his leg was free, his sand-blood pouring out over her hands and knees as though she had smashed an enormous hourglass. The clockwork man let out a long, sibilant sigh. After a moment the ticking of Kroenen's clockwork suddenly got much louder. Thinking that he had somehow moved closer to see his leg, she looked up—and felt the blood drain from her face. The assassin had slashed open his abdomen. Erica was thankful for the poor lighting and that all she could see was a few gears and ivory ribs. And was that a metal rod in his pelvis instead of the rest of his spine—?

"A pretty sight, is it, Fräulein?"

Startled, she found herself looking up at his mask again. He gestured at his stomach and the metal rod.

"Four crushed vertebrae. The result of the portal generator explosion. You remember, ja?"

Her mouth had gone dry. She nodded.

"I find it intriguing that history keeps repeating itself," Kroenen said, and rolled over in one quick motion, pulling free of the last spike and coming to rest on his back in front of her. He pushed himself up into a sitting position with his uninjured arm, leaning his back against the spike. White sand continued to pitter to the ground but did nothing to deter his strangely good mood. "For instance, I have been impaled twice at rather epic moments involving both of us."

Erica smiled and moved closer so she was kneeling facing him. "For the record, I think that with the trying to kill me, knocking me out, and beating me up, we're pretty even."

"Ja, we are that, are we not?" he murmured, running his hand along the side of her face and through her silky brown hair. Reluctantly, he dropped his hand to his lap. "We have work to do, you and I."

"Alright. Just tell me what to do."

Kroenen's lipless grin widened in a smile. "As you wish."

The work was hard, and laborious. Each layer of severed muscle and its accompanying mechanisms and clockwork had to be repaired before the skin above it could be drawn back together. And they didn't have nearly enough time. Even with the both of them there was work enough for _days_, work Kroenen told her, as she hurriedly fetched more suturing thread, or engraved sigils on metal wires, that must be finished before nightfall. They would have to take shortcuts.

Hyper focused, Erica lost all sense of time. There was only melting metal, and silver tools flashing in the darkness of the pit, and tangles of thick black thread through new holes in already scarred flesh. Sweat ran down her face and between her breasts; sand and dust clung to her damp skin. Sticky with oil and blood from her own injuries, Erica brushed her hands off on her pants legs, leaving long red-brown streaks across the black fabric.

The methodical work consumed her, and it was only hours later that, exhausted, she came out of her daze of intense concentration and found herself sitting on a chair, shivering in just her tank top and tilting her head at an awkward angle so Kroenen could finish stitching the gash across her throat. Her leather coat and long sleeved shirt lay abandoned on the floor.

They were no longer in the pit; at some point they had relocated so they could both work on Kroenen's repairs without the hindrance of the spikes. While she waited Erica watched the gears turning hypnotically in the walls; they clanked occasionally as their teeth bit together.

With a slight tug Kroenen's nimble fingers neatly tied the last stitch. He snipped the excess thread off and gazed down at her through the dark lenses of his mask; he had put on a spare while they were working to protect his eyes. Tenderly he brushed away the dried blood on her face that had trickled down from her temple.

"You are a glorious, beautiful, absolute mess," he said. She could hear the smile in his voice.

Erica laughed and looked pointedly at his tattered clothing and the fresh sutures crisscrossing his flesh. "Speak for yourself."

Kroenen stepped away, flexing his limbs. "It will do for now," the assassin told her, pleased. "When this is finished I will reopen the wounds and make more permanent repairs." With one hand he automatically wound the key of his clockwork heart; with his other he drew a baton sword and began experimentally spinning and flipping it, checking his reflexes.

He was trying to hide it from her but Erica could see him wincing; muscle spasms raced over his limbs as he forced them through their movements. Not bad for someone who had practically been lying in pieces hours before, but he was far from tip-top condition.

"So…what happens from here?" she asked, leaning forward with her elbows resting on her knees.

"I cannot tell you."

"Why?"

"Your reactions will be more realistic if you do not know what is coming."

"Kroenen, you cannot seriously be thinking about single-handedly taking on Grigory Rasputin, Ilsa, Hell Hounds, and the Ogdru Jahad in that condition."

The assassin looked slightly insulted. "Why not?" he challenged. "I seem to remember a certain apprentice of mine doing the same thing a few decades ago."

"But I had _help_," she said in exasperation. "I had an entire _troop_ of soldiers. We don't even have the agents from the BPRD anymore, and you're hurt."

"If you have a better idea, I suggest you share it," he said, his voice hinted with venom.

He had her there. At a loss for words Erica's eyes cast about the room, searching for inspiration. She found none.

"You could at least tell me what's going to happen," she muttered, picking at the dried blood crusted on her tank top. "It is my life—and soul—that's at stake here. Not to mention the rest of the world." Her eyes fell on the assassin's black SS uniform; among the broken glass and chaos of the hexagonal room it still hung neatly on its hanger. "And you'll have to put on different clothes, or they'll know something's up—"

She stopped abruptly, gazing intently at his uniform. The vague beginnings of an idea stirred in her mind and she got up and went over to it, looking it up and down critically.

His attention attracted by her sudden movement and silence, Kroenen had followed her. "You were saying? Erica?"

It was a fool's idea, a shot in the dark, and it could easily get both of them killed. But it could work.

"Do you have another of your masks in here?" Erica asked. "We're going to need it."

Author's Notes: Please review; I value all comments and suggestions.


	23. Through Hell and Back

**Chapter 23: Through Hell and Back**

Disclaimer: You know the drill: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz and the plot that is not from the movie are mine.

Author's Notes: I am back after another long hiatus to serve up the climactic chapter before I head back to the city for my final semester of college. Hold onto your seats and prepare for some heart-pounding action!

"What, do you tremble? Are you all afraid? Alas, I blame you not; for you are mortal, and mortal eyes cannot endure the Devil."—Shakespeare's Richard III

_The Catacombs_

_Night_

Ilsa breathed in a deep, shuddering breath of the icy air. It thrummed and crackled with unusual energy as it poured down her throat into her lungs. She shivered with delight. The fabric of the world, it seemed, was just itching to split at the seams and spill out the writhing, tentacled Gods of Chaos like some enormous cosmic birth sack.

And split it would—everything had gone according to Rasputin's plan. Hunched over in unconsciousness and weighed down by the massive wooden yoke imprisoning him, Anung-un-Rama slept on, oblivious to the impending power and glory awaiting him as the Prince of Hell.

_For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever_. Ilsa's lips quirked in a crooked smile. Though bastardized and certainly well beyond blasphemy the last lines of the Lord's Prayer put in the service of Anung-un-Rama and the Ogdru Jahad seemed so appropriate for this moment. _Earth shall be God's kingdom no longer._

That was something she could say a hearty amen to.

The sound of something clanking drew her attention. It came from the end of the large church-like space, past the funeral niches and the statues holding swords. It was not, however, the huge mechanical gears turning in the walls between the columns: the huge solar system model that upstaged the altar was slowly starting to shift into movement. Ilsa watched excitedly as the entire model began to revolve, matching the dance of unseen heavenly bodies. She glanced upwards. Above her the cold impassive face of the full moon glowed brightly in the night sky like a luminous blind eye veined with grey.

"It is nearly time."

Grigory's voice spoke her thoughts aloud. He stepped from the shadows to her right; the darkness melted reluctantly from his body and drew back to the corners of the room. Though made of glass Rasputin's blue eyes were alight with unholy fire as they scanned the room, settling first on Anung-un-Rama, then on the raven-haired woman laid out on the altar. The pyrokinetic's clothing had burned off in her uncontrolled fiery tempest that had reduced the Sammaels to charred bones and their eggs to ashes; a sheet of elaborately embroidered black fabric that matched Grigory's ceremonial robes covered her nakedness.

Rasputin's eyes settled last, and with cruel intent, on the young male BPRD agent chained to the wall. He was awake; his wide, scared eyes stared out from a face encrusted with congealing blood. Ilsa's fingers twitched slightly, longing to wrap around the sturdy handle of her sledgehammer. She hoped Rasputin would let her kill the boy before the ceremony started. Even though she knew she would have her fill of it and more after tonight, she was eager to see blood spilled.

Speaking of which… her eyes were drawn to the black stone block standing vertically on end to the right of the altar. Its newly replaced shackles hung empty and gleaming, awaiting tonight's sacrificial victim. Ilsa pursed her lips. _He had better not be late. Where—?_

The rhythmic tapping of jackboot heels smartly hitting the flagstones announced the timely arrival of the last person.

_The last _two_ people, actually_, Ilsa thought.

Kroenen stepped gracefully from the dim corridor and out into the pale moonlight pouring into the space through the broken dome ceiling. Cradled in his arms was Erica Schwarz. She was out cold, and her shirt and coat were thick with dried blood.

_There's a lot more where that came from_, Ilsa thought, her gaze lingering on the stained fabric, _and we will cut every _last_ bit out of her veins._ Her heartbeat sped up at the prospect. Ilsa turned her attention back to the clockwork assassin. Though she was pleased Kroenen had arrived on time and with Erica in tow, she couldn't help but harass him a little.

"What kept you? Did your beloved little traitor give you some trouble?" she asked mockingly.

She was hoping to get a rise out of him, but Kroenen did not take the bait. He simply nodded and made a self-deprecating little bow in acknowledgement of his shortcomings before crossing the space, the long leather coat of his SS uniform swishing softly in the silence. He stopped before the black slab and dropped Erica's feet to the ground, rearranging her so she was bent over his shoulder. Erica seemed to be coming around; she twitched a little but seemed too dazed to do any more. With her limp body hanging on him, Kroenen efficiently snapped the manacles onto her wrists and then stepped away. Arms chained by her sides, Erica swayed unsteadily and her legs buckled.

Kroenen tilted his masked head critically to one side, considering—and then he backhanded her across the face.

Or rather, mask. Ilsa frowned at it, even as the sharp blow brought Erica into full wakefulness and she managed to stand properly. Erica was wearing a cold weather mask that covered her entire head; with its darkly tinted plastic face shield it was similar to the one Ilsa had worn in the mountains of Moldavia. Why hadn't Kroenen removed it? Didn't he crave every last pained expression, every drop of liquid crimson that would trickle from that traitor's mouth? Ilsa started to move forward, her lips parting to speak, but then thought better of it. Grigory had said Erica's face had been one of the reasons the clockwork man had not killed her at the first sign of her betrayal. If Kroenen did not want to see her face, then so be it.

After all—and Ilsa turned malicious eyes on the male BPRD agent—she had her own victim. She would leave Kroenen's alone.

The soft rustle of fabric came from behind them and Kroenen turned and bowed his head to his master. Rasputin spared his servant the smallest smile of approval before directing his piercing gaze to the assassin's captive.

"_Acire_," he said, drawing out the syllables of Erica's true name into a sibilant hiss. "Tell me…did you enjoy the surprise I had Kroenen leave for you in the Professor's library?"

Snarling, Erica lunged and got all of three inches before tugging her short chains to their limits. Her body shook with fury. Grigory laughed, cold and depraved. Abruptly he stopped and roughly seized her chin with strong fingers. Fire blazed in the pin point specks of light reflected back from the twin pits of his eyes as he forced her to look at him.

"And here I have you, just as I said," he growled, his face contorted into a grotesque display of hatred and self-satisfaction. "How _fitting_ that the reign of the Ogdru Jahad will begin with the death of the traitor that interfered with their release!"

He leaned in closer so his lips were beside the mask where it covered her ear, and his voice lowered to a grating murmur far more terrifying than his shouting had been. "I am going to watch you fall, _Acire_. I am going to watch you _die_. And when Kroenen has finished bathing his hands in your blood, the Ogdru Jahad shall…_at last_…have you. You can be most assured that they await your soul with open maws. I am sure the sight will freeze your heart like no nightmare you have _ever_ witnessed."

Grigory slowly drew back from her. Erica remained silent, her gloved fists clenched. Curling his lip at her, Rasputin placed one hand against her chest and forcefully pushed her back against the polished stone. With a last glare at her he swept over to the altar. Kroenen smoothly took his place, pushing back the folds of his coat and arranging himself in the straight-backed commanding pose befitting a Nazi Lieutenant Colonel and the Head of the Thule Occult Society.

Myers had only half-watched their exchange. Whatever devil's deal Erica had struck to save her life, clearly neither Kroenen nor the others had any intention of honoring it. Panting, Myers tried once more to slip his hands out of the shackles. The ice cold metal bit into the thin skin on his knuckles, and gasping in pain he immediately stopped pulling. The hot liquid trickling over his bare fingers confirmed the damage he had done. Puffing and blowing he tried to crane his neck around enough to see—

Metal clanked close by and Myers looked up into Ilsa's deceptively beautiful face. Lips red with perfectly applied lipstick split into a wicked smile. A large square-headed hammer rested easily on her shoulder, and her scarlet-nailed fingers were wrapped tightly around its thick shaft like bloody talons. Myers's stomach clenched with dread.

She hefted her weapon and he flinched, his body tensing in anticipation of the blow, but instead, smirking, Ilsa dropped her gaze to where the last grenade belt lay on the snow-dusted stone floor just feet from the agent's boots. Swiftly she crouched beside it and set about destroying the timer.

BANG! CLANG! BANG!

The metal gave way almost at once, pieces of the mechanism scattering as the housing was smashed. Though the first few hits had more than done their job Ilsa persisted, every now and then deliberately turning to grin unpleasantly at him just as her hammer descended on the wreck of metal. Myers shuddered as each blow fell, knowing the Aryan woman had every intention of doing the same to him.

CLANG! BANG!

Hellboy stirred and lifted his head—

_Ouch. Headache._

—He tried again, slower this time, and automatically reached for the back of his head where it was throbbing like that subway train had run over his skull all over again. His hand didn't make it. Confused, the demon forced his eyes open. It was an effort; his eyelids felt like they had been sealed shut by something that was now cracking and falling away. Mud came to mind for some reason. He reached up to rub at his eyes, but again his hand stopped short. What the hell was going on? The last thing he remembered Liz—

—Liz!

Hellboy jerked his head up, squinting through the aching and the _bang, bang, bang_ of his pulse inside his skull. His fuzzy, blurred vision informed him that he wasn't actually sitting, as he had thought, but kneeling. He was also chained to the floor by an enormous wooden yoke reinforced by thick bands of metal. He tested his strength against it, expecting to crack the wood with a simple shrug of his shoulders. Unbelievably it held firm; not even one splinter. Anger building rapidly, he tried again, thrashing and bellowing with exertion and rage. The yoke creaked and the thick chains rattled cacophonously but held fast; he wasn't going anywhere. Chest heaving, the demon sank back on his haunches. Alright, brute strength was out for now. So what were his other options? And damn it, it would sure help if his head would give it a rest!

CLANG!

Blinking, Hellboy turned slightly to the left and discovered that the pounding wasn't just in his head. Ilsa was putting the finishing touches on a grenade belt timer with that hammer of hers. _So pyrotechnics are out too_, Hellboy thought. His searching eyes found Myers next, secured to the wall and bloody but relatively unhurt_. Geez, these guys have a thing for bondage don't they?_

But where was Liz?

Myers answered his unspoken question with a jerk of his head towards the end of the room. Hellboy followed the motion, and there she was lying on the altar. Grigory Rasputin stood over Liz with his back to Hellboy, but the demon could still see that the mad monk's entire attention was focused on reading the ancient book in his hands. The altar was flanked by two huge polished stones, one white and one black. In the demon's experience slabs were never a good thing.

And then there was the _last_ person Hellboy had expected to see.

Kroenen stood to the right of the altar in full SS black, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. Hellboy bared his teeth and snarled, the angry sound rumbling deep within him. _Damn it! Moves like a cockroach _and_ just as fuckin' hard to squish!_

How had that Nazi wind-up toy gotten out from under that cog and down here?

The demon's eyes fell on the figure chained to the black stone slab behind the assassin and he had his answer: Erica.

_That son of a bitch_. Hellboy could see it all playing out in his head; how Erica must have freed the clockwork man, helped him repair himself—and then the assassin had turned on her and beaten Erica at her own game. What the _hell_ had Erica thought she was playing at? Why was she working with him in the first place? To save her life? It didn't look like it had been very effective.

He peered at her, trying to discern if she was awake, and noticed that for some reason she was wearing her full-head cold weather mask. He had little time to wonder at it though, as Grigory's booming voice suddenly rang out like a priest reciting vile scripture to an infernal congregation.

"And I looked and beheld an Angel, and in his right hand the key to the bottomless pit."

Rasputin turned from the statue of the angel Abbadon and for the first time Hellboy was finally face to face with his enemy. The demon did not like what he saw; there was something rotten about him, down to the bluish pallor of his skin. There was far more of the abyss about him than human.

"These were the words I heard as a peasant boy in Tobolsk. And now the door," Rasputin announced, snapping the book shut and gesturing grandly with it, his arm out flung and indicating the white marble stone, "sent by the Ogdru Jahad so that they might at long last enter our world."

"_You_ are the key!" Ilsa said excitedly. "The right hand of doom! Your stone hand, what did you think it was made for?"

It took Hellboy a minute, as he stared from his hand to the two dark openings in the marble block, the two openings that he now realized were handprints that precisely matched the shape of his huge stone arm. No… Could it really be that this was what this part of his body had been created for?

"Open the locks!" Ilsa encouraged.

And though Hellboy knew he shouldn't even be thinking it, there was a nagging, incessant curiosity so deep it seemed rooted in his very soul, in the depths of each and every one of his cells, and he started to wonder…what would happen if he did?

"Don't do it! Don't do it, Red!" Myers yelled frantically.

Without any hesitation Ilsa swung her hammer and hit him right in the face. Myers crumpled, blood running freely from his nose and a new gash over his cheekbone. He stayed down, moaning into the snow.

"Silence." Ilsa spoke the order as though Myers were nothing but a dog annoying her with his barking. The blond woman rounded on Hellboy again, shifting to a new tactic designed to hit closer to his heart. She nodded at Liz. "Imagine it…an Eden, for you and her—"

The demon shook his head. "No."

Erica shuddered, watching helplessly as Grigory in a disturbingly calm, utterly reasonable voice bargained Liz's life for the opening of a door. She wanted to protect her, but there was nothing she could do; as much as she cared for the pyrokinetic Erica would not risk the world for her.

And neither, it seemed, would Hellboy.

The demon howled in torment while Grigory swallowed Liz's soul.

Erica turned her masked face away; she could not bear to watch. She had known these things—some of them, anyway—would come to pass, but the reality was far more horrible than she had ever imagined.

Preceded by a tickle at the base of Erica's skull, Kroenen's presence grazed her thoughts. _So now that we are here, what was the rest of your brilliant plan, pray tell?_ His tone was vaguely scathing.

_Better than yours_, she thought back, and despite the desperateness of the situation she felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. It faded quickly.

_Somewhat_, the assassin grudgingly conceded. _But though I too like a bit of spontaneity, if this lack of specific, well laid-plans is customary for how the BPRD conducts its operations, in addition to its extraordinarily high rate of general failure during the course of this incident, you can be sure I_ will _be retraining you_. _Assuming we survive._

She answered him somewhat crossly, _Well it would help just the teeniest bit if you could tell me exactly what is supposed to happen here._

_I cannot. Rasputin—_

—_Would know. I know. So I am anxiously—emphasis on _anxiously_—waiting for your signal. Don't be late._

Kroenen chuckled dryly. _Believe me; I will do my utmost._

Hellboy was sobbing now. "No, no, _no_…"

Rasputin glided over to the demon. "Her soul awaits on the other side. If you want her back…" he said softly, laying a hand on Hellboy's bowed head, "open the door and claim her."

Mistake. At the first touch of Rasputin's skin on his own Hellboy lashed out, heaving at his chains and roaring. Grigory withdrew his arm just in time and then grasped the bottom of the yoke below the demon's face.

"Your true name is inscribed around the locks that hold you," he growled. "You _cannot_ break them, no matter how strong you are!"

They glared at each other, testing the other's will. Who would crumble first?

Ilsa's cool voice interrupted, "The eclipse has begun."

Erica's gaze darted skyward. Lighting flickered among the roiling, black clouds, but the storm was giving the moon a wide berth. And rapidly edging over the curved rim of the glowing sphere was a shadow the ugly color of old clotted blood.

Time was running out. Hellboy had to make a choice.

"Your true name…SAY IT!" Grigory demanded.

Hellboy stared at him, bewildered and struggling. He did not know his true name, to say it or not.

Rasputin's mouth twitched as his eyes fell on Professor Broom's rosary wrapped around Hellboy's wrist. Sneering, he ripped it away. Rosary beads bounced and rolled in all directions.

"Become the key."

Grigory flung the remains of the rosary to the side. It landed silently in the snow near Myers.

With a heavy sigh the demon hunched over, defeated. His voice was a hoarse whisper. "_For her_."

Behind her mask, Erica's eyes widened. _Oh SHIT_.

_Glad you did not place a bet on him now, Angel?_ Kroenen asked.

_He hasn't done anything yet—he could be bluffing—_

_Sorry to disappoint you, but that is_ _not_ _a poker face_.

The assassin was right, and she knew it with a heart as heavy as lead. Hellboy was grieving, broken. Unfortunately it seemed her words had been accursedly prophetic when she had turned traitor to defend Kroenen and told Hellboy that he would do the same for Liz.

_No no no_…_come on HB_…_don't do this! This isn't just Liz! This is everything!_

Crazed eyes blacker than pitch bored into the beaten demon; like twin black holes no light escaped from their bottomless, all-consuming depths. "Anung-un-Rama," Rasputin whispered. "Repeat it."

No one breathed. There was absolute silence, as though all of existence was holding perfectly still and listening, waiting with trepidation for the demon's decision. Hellboy's voice trembled as he uttered the syllables that would free him and doom the world. "_Anung-un-Rama_…"

And then the end began.

The yoke's bolts popped out and the wood split in half; it hit the floor with an almighty crash of chains. The eclipse overtook the moon's face, covering the room in dirty crimson hued shadows; Hellboy's entire appearance darkened as they swarmed over him. Fire blazed into life along the ancient symbols carved into his right hand, racing around it and turning the heavy stone the glowing red of superheated metal.

_Mein Gott_. Fear twisted wrenching at Erica's stomach and she subtly but urgently nudged the clockwork assassin with her foot. _Um_, _Kroenen…? Don't you think we…?_

_Patience_, he thought back.

Patience? If it were not for the combination of awe and fascinated horror that rooted her to the spot she would not have been able to stand still. Erica ached to do something, even if she did not know what she could do. Though she had known there was a chance she honestly had not been prepared for the possibility that Hellboy would do as Grigory commanded. But he had, and that made the situation so much infinitely worse than Rasputin's first attempt to unleash the Ogdru Jahad—and she had just barely by the grace of God averted the catastrophe then.

Sixty years ago she had been facing people, powerful people, but still humans with all their frailties and mortality.

Now she faced the Prince of Hell.

There was no mistaking that was what Hellboy was becoming. The tired battle-weary body was gone; his muscular frame suddenly rippled with unnatural strength. He stood and he went up and just seemed to keep going, rapidly increasing in height. Huge horns burst from the stumps on his forehead, glowing like embers as they grew, curving back and then forward again and darkening to black at their pointed tips. Hellish flames flared between his horns, suspended there like a molten burning crown. Smoke and heat boiled out of his nose and open mouth. The air stank of sulfur.

Reveling, intoxicated with power and consumed by arrogance, he looked down on all of them and grinned. He was unstoppable and he knew it.

With heavy footsteps that thundered like destruction he strode towards the white marble slab, his eyes locked on Liz's dead body.

_Kroenen…?_

_Not yet._

Rasputin followed the demon at a distance, matching him step for step. Hellboy stopped before the marble block and jammed his stone hand into the first opening. Grimacing, he braced himself and turned it like the enormous key it was, letting out a roar that was loud enough to shake the walls.

Fire surged along the cracks covering the marble and a crimson beam of light as thick as a tree trunk exploded from its top into the sky. Strong enough to be seen from all over Moscow, the beam blazed as it hit the eclipsed moon; it spread out to cover its surface in a blasting conflagration and then ripped through it. The tear across the moon's face spread outwards until it was a circle, a perfect nightmarish gash through the universe. And on the other side was a vast ocean of unfamiliar stars swimming in infinite blackness.

But the stars were not alone. Out of sight and impossibly far away but nonetheless still sensed, something inconceivably immense began to stir. The Ogdru Jahad, the Seven Gods of Chaos, were shattering their crystal prisons. For a moment Erica's gaze was dragged involuntarily inward, and with her mind's eye she was a horrified witness to colossal gelatinous tentacles uncurling and _reaching_—

She tore herself free of the forced vision.

_Kroenen,_ _if we wait much longer there's not going to BE a 'yet!'_

Lighting crashed in the storm clouds, illuminating clusters of gargantuan copper colored tentacles stretching into the earthly plane. They spiraled around the ruby beam of light, following the beacon down.

Grigory was laughing, enraptured with triumph. But there was still one thing to be done to make the moment flawlessly poetic. Reluctantly he pulled his gaze from the scene in the heavens and his hypnotic eyes, smoldering with vengeance, locked on Erica. His face worked with passion. "Kroenen—send that traitor where her soul belongs! _Kill her_."

That was what Kroenen had been waiting for. _Erica, NOW!_

_With pleasure_, she answered.

Myers heard Rasputin's order; another horror was on the verge of being added to the evening's already extensive list. The agent watched, heart hammering, as the assassin mockingly executed a deep, sweeping bow to his victim and drew a long wicked looking knife. Erica might be a traitor to both sides, but Myers still did not want her to die, and certainly not like this.

Like an insect trapped in a spider's web, Erica tensed in her chains as Kroenen approached, but there would be no escape for her. The clockwork man grabbed her by the neck and pinned her against the slab. Kroenen raised the knife high, preparing to plunge it into Erica's chest. Myers waited for the lethal flash of the descending blade. He could not stomach the thought of watching the death blow and was planning to squeeze his eyes shut, even if he could do nothing to deafen himself to her agonized screams.

The knife stabbed down!

SCREEEEEEEEEEEE!

The ear-splitting shriek was not Erica's—it was the sound of metal on metal. Myers dared to open his eyes just as the chains fell from Erica's wrists, the metal links twisted and glowing red hot where Kroenen's knife had bit into them.

For the briefest second everyone stared, startled by this bizarre development.

Kroenen gave no time for them to recover. He dropped the knife, spun on his heel and in one fluid movement pulled a handgun from his belt. Ilsa's eyes widened in shock as the gun barrel swiveled to lock on her; it was not the Luger Kroenen carried: on its side gleaming in gunmetal grey was the BPRD logo.

BAM!

The gun's sharp report shattered the silence; once, twice, three times. Blood burst from Ilsa's shoulder and upper right arm and she staggered back and fell with a cry. The hammer's handle slipped from her now useless fingers.

The gun turned on Rasputin—and he vanished abruptly. The two bullets intended for his head buried themselves instead in the marble slab, detonating in miniature blasts of stone fragments and dust. Distracted by the noise the Prince of Hell flinched and paused, his burning eyes raking over the twin impact craters.

Light flashed across the lenses of Kroenen's mask as he scanned the room, searching for the mad monk. Erica came up beside him fumbling with her cold weather mask, and then pulled it off and threw it to the side. Myers gaped in confusion. Beneath it was another of Kroenen's metal masks! Then who was….?

"_Scheiße!_" The Kroenen in the SS uniform swore vehemently in German, but despite the harsh accent the voice was definitely Erica Schwarz's.

Lurking unseen in the shadow of the black stone slab Grigory picked up the knife Erica had dropped after freeing Kroenen. His hand curled slowly, tightly around the hilt. So another of his servants had dared betray him? _HIM?_ There was only one reason Kroenen would engage in such deception: Erica. Rasputin narrowed his eyes at her back with a loathing and poison so deep that it burned like acid eating away at his core. The girl had caused him a ludicrous amount of trouble at every turn. But no more. He would rid himself of her and Kroenen in one blow of his knife. Despair would be a living death for the clockwork man: with Erica dead Kroenen would surrender to grief. The assassin would be no further threat, and when the Ogdru Jahad reigned over this world and scoured it with fire, only then by their mercy would the undead man perish.

Still dressed in Erica's clothes Kroenen drew his baton swords and—very jerkily—stalked past her. He was limping slightly and definitely favoring his left leg. Erica winced at the sight, but there were more pressing matters literally hanging over their heads with grasping tentacles. "Where did Rasputin—?"

A powerful punch to her arm and the gun was knocked spinning from her hand. She whirled and abruptly backpedaled as Rasputin stabbed violently at her chest with a blade. The knife whistled coldly, missing her left breast by a hair. His surprise attack thwarted Grigory wasted no time; he seized her coat's lapel and twisted his hand in it, dragging her close and stabbing at her again. Erica threw out her arm, skillfully blocking with the wrist blade sheath strapped to her forearm. Rasputin's knife caught in the slashed leather of her sleeve and snarling, his face dark with rage and his eyes wild, Grigory wrenched the blade free.

Erica braced herself to fend off another attack—instead Rasputin yanked powerfully at her coat. She stumbled and with the strength of a beast Grigory threw her. Pain exploded across her ribs as she smashed into a stone sarcophagus and rolled across its domed lid, the world spinning around her in a dizzying blur of grey stone, white snow, and scorching fire. She clutched desperately at the lid but it was polished and smooth; a kick from Grigory dislodged her gloved fingers and she slipped. The bottom dropped out of her stomach as she tumbled over the edge and fell.

She landed in the narrow gap between two ornately carved sarcophagi, her body wedged between them. Her spine crawling as she sensed Grigory and his knife closing in above her, Erica ignored the protests of her bruised body and frantically struggled to free her arms, wriggling desperately in the gap.

Kroenen had turned at the first sounds of battle and limped towards the two combatants, cursing his wounded body's slowness. The fight was over so fast that he had only gotten halfway there when instead of going in for the kill Rasputin suddenly straightened up.

"_Open the final lock!_" he commanded Hellboy. "OPEN IT!"

The demon's face split into a wide diabolical grin and he pulled his right hand from the depths of the slab's first opening.

Kroenen hesitated, torn between defending Erica and attacking Anung-un-Rama. Out of the corner of his eye he detected movement; Myers, his hands slick with blood and plasma, had slipped one arm free from his shackles. The agent stretched and scooped up the tattered remains of the rosary, leaving bloody tracks in the snow. Transfixed by the gods emerging in the sky and clutching at her ruined arm, Ilsa was unaware of her captive's actions and imminent escape.

"Kroenen!" Grigory shouted. "You might not bleed. But _she_ will!"

The words were enough to still even his steady clockwork heart.

Trapped between the sarcophagi Erica felt true unbridled panic set in as an ominous shadow fell over her. Silhouetted except for his gleaming blade, Rasputin towered over her with his black ceremonial robes billowing. The flesh of his arms and shoulders surged with movement, displaced by tentacles writhing under his skin in sadistic excitement as he came at her with the knife.

_Screw this!_ Erica thought.

She tugged her arm free, grating a good bit of her skin off against stone in the process, and extending the blade on her wrist she _lunged_.

The wrist blade sliced into Rasputin's hand, severing the top joint of his thumb and his entire forefinger. Howling, he staggered away. His knife, stained crimson and dripping with his blood, hit the floor. Kroenen rushed at him and the next moment Rasputin was on the ground. The assassin claimed the fallen blade before the monk could grab it again.

Panting and struggling to draw air through the grate of Kroenen's mask, Erica faced the demon on the verge of sending everything to hell. Flexing his huge stone fingers Hellboy stepped towards the last lock. Mask to mask, as one the two assassins rushed at him.

A sudden shout stopped them in their tracks. "_Remember who you are!_"

The new Prince of Hell hesitated and withdrew his stone hand, fingers twitching with indecision. Myers triumphantly held the rosary aloft, and then with all his strength he hurled it at Hellboy. The demon instinctively caught the rosary with his free hand. Smoke poured from his clenched fist and he reflexively dropped the offending object. Hellboy inspected his injured palm and for a long, strange second stared at the burning imprint of the cross glowing like fire against his red flesh. With a hiss the sparks died out, leaving a charred mark surrounded by wisps of smoke.

Fueled by anger and adrenaline Ilsa grabbed her hammer with her uninjured arm and dove at Myers, her avenging weapon swinging down—the sitting agent kicked out, hooking his foot around her legs and jerking them out from under her. No sooner was she on the ground then he kicked her hard in the face, his heel smashing into her head. Stunned by the blow, she stayed down. Myers snatched the keys from her belt and freed his other hand.

That was when Erica realized Grigory was not where she and Kroenen had left him. She touched Kroenen's elbow to alert him—the monk appeared suddenly at Hellboy's side, one hand wrapped in a section of his robes. Erica noticed the fabric was already soaked with blood and felt a surge of smug satisfaction.

"Believe me—I've lived long enough to know not a tear will be shed for this world!" Grigory ranted, desperately trying to sway the demon's decision. One of his eyes kept flicking back to Erica and Kroenen as they drew nearer, blades at the ready and more than willing to put them to use. Hellboy gave no sign that he had heard Rasputin at all; his golden eyes were still glued to the burned print on his palm. His fingers were trembling.

Myers approached, carrying the remains of the last grenade belt. "You have a choice; your father gave you that."

"No you don't! Open it! _DO IT!_"

With a blood-curdling bellow Hellboy reached up and savagely snapped off his horns. The stumps smoldered like the end of a cigarette, the fire within them quickly dying; the crown of flames winked out. The demon tilted his head back and sighed deeply, exhaling a cloud of smoke and forcing the last bits of the name Anung-un-Rama from his body and soul.

Sputtering, the scarlet beam of light fought to maintain the connection with the moon and then failed altogether. Infuriated roars came from above; the Ogdru Jahad's tentacles writhed amongst the clouds, graying out and dissolving into ash until even the echoes of their monstrous voices were gone. The tear in the universe faded, revealing the ivory face of the moon; the eclipse had ended.

"What have you done?" Grigory yelled.

Spinning around with one of his horns still clenched in his hand, Hellboy thrust it deep into Rasputin's guts. The monk let out a strangled cry.

"I _chose_," Hellboy growled, twisting his horn in the wound with a nauseating squish. The demon wrenched the gore covered horn out and dropped it.

Grigory crumpled to his knees, moaning in agony and holding his stomach. The demon turned and walked away, ignoring everyone else in the room and stepping over to gently gather Liz into his arms.

"You will never fulfill your destiny," Grigory said, his strained voice breaking with pain. "You will never understand the power inside you!"

"I'll just have to find a way to live with that."

Standing over Rasputin, Erica removed Kroenen's mask from her face and dispassionately watched her adversary and former master bleed out at her feet. The front of his ceremonial robes was drenched and his remaining fingers were heavily coated in gooey crimson. Their expected positions had been reversed and Grigory hated her for it and so much more. He bared his teeth at her; the rows of gnashing white coupled with his bony features made his face look like a death's head. Erica smiled grimly and stepped back from the spreading pool of dark blood steaming in the frigid air. She may not have been the one to kill him but as long as the bastard died she frankly did not care; her appetite for revenge was certainly sated.

"A life for a life," she murmured. "You took Professor Broom's, and now we have taken yours."

At her side Kroenen leaned against her shoulder. His breathing was harsh in her ear, rasping louder than usual. Erica instinctively knew he was hurting; in his wounded state it must have taken immense strength of will for him to move at all, one of the reasons she had suggested they switch places. The best plans truly were the simplest.

_It is over_, Kroenen's voice sighed in her head. The assassin's arm curled around her waist, as much a gesture of affection as a means to steady himself.

"Not quite yet," she replied, eyeing the demon descending the stairs with Myers silently following him.

Hellboy was cradling Liz's lifeless body and broken-heartedly nuzzling her hair. Subtly, Erica moved so she was shielding Kroenen; she was not sure what Hellboy's reaction would be to Broom's murderer, even now after he had helped defeat Rasputin.

The sound of something small rolling past reached her ears. It reminded her of a marble, but she saw nothing.

_Crunch_.

Hellboy looked down and picked up his boot. Beneath the shoe's thick sole were the shattered remains of a blue glass eye. Seeing it there staring at them caused Erica's stomach to sink with dread.

"_Child_…"

The whisper came from behind them. And there was Grigory Rasputin kneeling and just barely clinging to life, his mouth stretched wide in a disturbing, knowing grin. His one eye gazed blankly; the empty socket beside it was far too black, like an impossible tunnel boring into his skull and beyond.

"Look what you've done," he said softly, speaking with difficulty. Languid tendrils squirmed beneath the skin of Rasputin's forehead and several long and fleshy _somethings_ spilled from his empty eye socket and onto his cheek wriggling like maggots. "You've killed me, an insignificant man…but you have brought forth a _god!_"

Gurgling and choking Grigory arched backwards and spread his bloodstained hands wide, unveiling the deep stab wound in his belly. It had expanded into a gaping cavern and a tangle of dark blue mottled appendages tumbled from it, thrashing as more poured from Rasputin's abdomen like a putrid mess of diseased entrails.

"Behold!" he gasped, blood bubbling from the corners of his mouth. "My Master, Behemoth! Guardian of Thresholds, _Destroyer of Worlds!_"

A slimy six foot long creature wreathed in countless tentacles erupted from his torso and landed on the stone floor, twisting as it pulled the last of its length from his body like a parasite casting off the husk of its dying host. Rasputin finally fell back against the base of the marble block, his body twitching with its final convulsions.

Hellboy grimaced. "Myers, let's go."

They retreated, running for the entrance to a passageway. The two assassins hesitated and then followed as quickly as they could; Erica threw her arm around Kroenen's shoulders to support him.

Ilsa darted suddenly from the shadows, a black bruise marring her porcelain cheek. Kroenen tensed, expecting trouble, but she barely glanced at him and Erica. Dashing around the infernal monster Ilsa dropped to her knees beside her dying lover and embraced him tenderly. She kissed him, heedless of the blood that caked his lips.

Though he was by no means a clairvoyant like his beloved Angel of Death, Kroenen sensed instinctively that Ilsa would not survive the night. He felt a pang, but it was very distant. They had been colleagues and even lovers, yes, but it had been due more to convenience and circumstance than true fondness. She was no Erica; he would not miss her.

They left Ilsa to her fate. Behind them Behemoth grew exponentially, doubling in size with every second.

Hellboy and Myers had halted at what they judged to be a safe distance along the curved passage. Erica and Kroenen arrived just as the demon carefully set Liz down and propped her up against the wall.

"Keep her safe, will ya? Whatever happens don't leave her alone."

Myers nodded. "I won't."

"I'll deal with whatever's back there." Shooting a glance along the hallway, Hellboy's red-flecked golden eyes spied Erica and Kroenen. Instantly the air was thick with tension.

The pair froze in place and Erica hastily let go of the clockwork man and stepped protectively in front of him.

Hellboy's caustic gaze raked over them. With her face bloodied and the thick black line of sutures snaking across her throat Erica was an absolute mess. Kroenen, the demon was pleased to see, was in even worse shape. The ticking of broken clockwork and the harsh crunch of damaged gears grinding on each other echoed in the hall, and the assassin was having difficulty standing. All in all, they looked like they had been dragged through hell and back, and the figure of speech was not that far from the truth.

Erica licked nervously at her torn bottom lip and Hellboy realized she was waiting for his reaction. His back twinged painfully where she had stabbed him, a reminder of her short-lived betrayal. Hellboy couldn't make heads or tails of her bizarre behavior and even weirder alliance with that murdering Nazi wind-up-toy, but whatever was going on both of them were clearly fighting on his team and not Rasputin's. So crushing the clockwork man was probably off limits. Hellboy rumbled angrily under his breath, then noticed Erica's desperate expression and Kroenen's gloved fingers curled gently around her shoulder. There was something…incredibly _intimate_ about that simple gesture.

Then it clicked. Hellboy frowned deeply. So there really was something behind the 'kiss' that freak had given her back there.

"_Damn it, Erica!_" he yelled. Then he stopped. He had an enormous octopus of doom to fry in the next room; he could deal with the rest of this later. Hellboy shook his head and continued gruffly, "You know what…Never mind. I've got this. Get outta here before I change my mind and clobber the pair of ya."

Visibly sighing in relief, Erica gave him a small smile of thanks.

"Oh no," Myers said, eyes round. Apparently he was just catching on. "_Please_ don't tell me you have a thing for the guy who tried to kill you."

Erica covered Kroenen's hand with her own. "We are even," she said quietly. "On all accounts."

"Of course! Why not!" Still muttering to himself Myers tossed the last grenade belt to Hellboy.

The demon grinned. Pyrotechnics were an option after all.

"Myers, I hope you like calamari because it's goin' back on the menu."

All too happy to get out of there, Erica threw an arm over Kroenen's shoulders and the assassin did the same, gripping her hand with his free one. And together they stumbled towards the exit.

XXXXX

_Sebastian Plackba #16_

_Mausoleum Section_

_Night_

After winding their way through a maze of underground tunnels, rooms, and innumerable staircases, Kroenen directing her the whole way, they finally emerged from the ground and stepped out into the night.

It was snowing gently. Erica inhaled deeply, loving the feel of the chilly, clean air pouring into her lungs after the suffocating atmosphere underground. Being out in the open was an incredible relief, and even more so to have come out alive when she had gone down into the earth where death was waiting for her at the end of a knife.

They stopped by a mausoleum to rest. Breathing heavily, Erica let go of Kroenen and pressed her back against the monument behind her; despite the multiple layers of Kroenen's uniform the cold still leeched through where she touched the stone. But for the moment she did not care. She gazed out at the cemetery, eyes lingering on the moonlit patches of snow scattered among the shadows cast by the sea of limestone grave markers. It was so still and peaceful she could almost forget the horrors of the past few hours. She sighed and watched the white fog of her breath slowly dissipate.

Kroenen shifted beside her and Erica felt the cool, smooth surface of his gloved hand slide caressingly along her cheek as he gently turned her face towards his.

"You are safe," he said, as if he could not quite believe it.

Her lips quirked up into a teasing smile as she feigned offense. "Safe? Me? Kroenen's Angel of Death? I have been described as many things, but never _safe_."

He laughed softly and moved a little closer. The clockwork assassin was only a few inches away now and she could feel his breath on her face. "I see tonight has not robbed you of your wicked sense of humor; you know what I meant."

Kroenen's gaze traveled over her body, admiring the way the fabric and leather of his uniform made her look. _Your clothes against her skin—ALL of it,_ said his inner voice. _Your mask, _it purred triumphantly. _You!_

In fact, when she had worn his mask had it not been for the slight difference in height and in the way she moved, he would have thought he was seeing his reflection in a mirror.

Erica blushed under the intensity of his gaze. Kroenen grinned lasciviously, resolving to be the cause of those cheeks blushing more often in the future.

Trying to think of something to say, Erica's eyes fell on her clothes. "So…what about these?" she asked, gesturing to his SS uniform and the mask hanging from her hand by its leather straps. "Do you want to switch back?"

The assassin reached over and adjusted the SS cap on her head, playfully tilting it down and to the side at a jaunty angle. He contemplated the effect approvingly. "Keep them. I have others. And you may find you can make use of them. Besides," he said huskily, his voice taking on a dark and hungry tone as he leaned in closer and ran the back of his index finger down her cheek, "I intend to take them off of you later. _Piece…by…piece_."

His gentle whisper sent shivers down her back that had nothing to do with the cold. Erica suddenly felt short of breath. Her mind dwelled on the mental images his words had stirred up for a second too long; her body flooded with heat and she felt her cheeks flush what was surely an astoundingly vibrant shade of red.

Kroenen chuckled appreciatively. "Hmmm, I see you like that idea… which is good, because I am a man of my word. I _will_ keep it."

In this wintry landscape Erica had thought it was impossible for her to feel overheated. Kroenen had just proved her wrong. She was certain that had she not been wearing boots, her body heat would have melted the snow clear through to the bare earth.

"Speaking of later…What is to become of us?" Kroenen asked, taking on a more serious tone.

"What indeed…"

Erica gazed blindly out at the landscape, pensively chewing at her bottom lip. The torn flesh stung and she grimaced.

One option was completely out: Kroenen absolutely could not return with her to the BPRD. Though Hellboy had spared the assassin tonight because he had helped them the demon would not tolerate the presence of his father's murderer in the building he called home.

And Erica had no desire to be parted from Kroenen again. So that meant…a huge weight she had not known she was carrying lifted from her shoulders and was replaced by a wild, fierce sense of freedom. Yes, that was it. When she thought about it, what did she have to lose?

The cold wind blew through her chestnut hair and she unconsciously huddled closer to the little shelter Kroenen's body offered. His arms embraced her, encircling her tightly.

"Kroenen…when we were underground, in the subway tunnels, you asked me if I would return—if I would come away with you when all of this was done…"

The assassin waited, hardly daring to hope.

"And my answer is _yes_."

The next second Kroenen was grabbing her by her waist and hoisting her into the air, spinning around with her until his injured leg gave out and they fell laughing into a snow bank. Elated and breathless Kroenen kneeled over her, snaking his fingers through her long silky hair where it cascaded over her shoulders and spilled onto the sparkling snow. Her lovely grey eyes were unusually bright.

"_Ich liebe mein Engel_," he whispered passionately.

"I love you too," she murmured.

He leaned his forehead against hers; the smooth ebony metal of his mask was pleasantly cool against her skin. They stayed like that for a long wonderful eternity, their breath mingling. Enveloped by the feel of his clothes and his scent of dust and leather, and most of all by the clockwork assassin himself, Erica was incredibly content. It felt so _right_.

Eventually though, her back began to go numb with cold and she was forced to stir from their embrace. Sitting up, she absentmindedly brushed the snow from her clothes. From somewhere in the distance of the graveyard there came the boom of an explosion. Kroenen's masked face snapped towards it. Erica winced, remembering the grenade belt Myers had given Hellboy.

"Guess that means the mission is over," she said.

Kroenen gracefully extended a hand to her and helped her to her feet. "If we are going to leave, we should do it now."

Erica nodded in agreement. She had no desire for long awkward goodbyes; she had already said hers to Abe. Though she had not consciously realized it at the time, looking back on it she knew that was what had passed between them. Abe had known she would not return even before she had.

Now her mind calmly traced a course of action she could not believe she was really contemplating, let alone about to carry out. "The truck and vans we came in are parked by the cemetery gate. I could hotwire one of them, but we would have to abandon it eventually because it has a tracking device in it."

"An excellent idea, Erica, but I have a better one."

He beckoned and, curious, she followed him around the mausoleum they had taken shelter under. On the other side was an old decommissioned military truck.

"Oh," she said, blinking.

"It was used to transport the stone blocks. Needless to say, in their current state its previous owners have no further use for it," he said, a wicked edge to his voice. "The keys are in the ignition."

Erica hazarded a guess that the men had not met a pleasant fate. She surveyed the assassin, swaying unsteadily where he stood. "I'm driving." Kroenen gave her no argument.

Swiftly brushing the snow from the windshield Erica opened the driver's side door and climbed in. Kroenen was already in the passenger seat. "We should drive though Moscow so they lose our tracks in the city. And then…" she trailed off, looking to him for direction.

"Norway. One of our safe places from WWII is still there: a castle. Ilsa and I fled there after the battle at Trodham Abbey and lived there while researching ways to resurrect Rasputin. We do not have to stay long if it makes you uncomfortable."

Erica shrugged. As long as they were together, it didn't matter to her where. She turned the key in the ignition and the cold engine roared to life.

Kroenen chuckled. "I may be arriving in much the same ruined state as sixty years ago, but this homecoming promises to be far more delightful because of your company."

She smiled at that. Carefully she steered the truck onto a narrow access path that meandered through the cemetery. They passed through the gate and then drove off into the snow, the engine purring and the windshield wipers squeaking and swishing the snow from the glass.

So many things had kept her and Kroenen apart—propriety, work, war, distance, hatred, fear. But at long last they could have what they had always desired: each other.

Perhaps one day she would return to the BPRD. Perhaps… but it would not be soon.

Her locator belt quietly started blinking, the light casting a blue glow over the inside of the truck with every rhythmic flash.

And with a flick of her fingers, Erica turned it off.

Author's Notes: I was going to end it here, but I decided I wanted some more Erica and Kroenen goodness, so instead the next chapter will be the conclusion of Though Heaven Bar the Way. Please review; I value all comments and suggestions.


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